


Of Sacrifice and Love

by Call_Of_Booty



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: Action & Romance, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_Of_Booty/pseuds/Call_Of_Booty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After acknowledging a mutual attraction for one another the night before "Loose Ends," Ghost and Roach immediately lead the operation on Makarov's safe house. Against all odds, they survive, and must come to terms with a relationship that neither of them quite fully understand. This is a sequel to a short story written five years ago on fanfiction.net, "Of Doubts and Dreams," and it drastically shifts the MW3 narrative. (Any specific trigger warnings are posted in Chapter Notes).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been off the Call of Duty bandwagon for years but this pairing has always managed to linger in my imagination. I decided to write this sequel to “Of Doubts and Dreams” to coincide with the real world anniversary of “Loose Ends,” which transpired on August 15 (or 16?), 2016 in the world of MW2. I guess writing this might be somewhat therapeutic since I adore the pairing.
> 
> I recommend reading the prequel short story, “Of Doubts and Dreams,” and while I’m embarrassed by my old writing, it helps contextualize the present narrative.  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6644947/1/Of-Doubts-and-Dreams
> 
> PS: This will probably be about 6-7 chapters total. I’ve already written most of the last chapter, but none of the middle ones. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 1: Reborn**

_It’s been a tough week, gentleman. We’ve lost more than we ever dreamed. But we will recover._

\--General Shepherd

 

 

For Gary “Roach” Sanderson it was _hell_ carving a clear path to Vladimir Makarov’s safe house. He witnessed with horror as shrapnel shredded the flesh of Task Force 141 – his _brothers –_ when they triggered a mine field. While Roach had quickly gone prone to avoid the blast radius of the mines, a few of his comrades received fatal injuries. An unexpected ambush from a nearby ridge dwindled the size of the squad members that remained. But there was no time to mourn, to grieve, for their lives would be expended in vain if the mission aborted prematurely. Bullet proofed vehicles had slowed the progress of the remaining strike force composed of Ghost, Roach, Ozone, and Scarecrow with Archer and Toad providing sniper fire from a distance. The team spotted the safe house, their destination, and charged forward, expecting and prepared for the worst.

Roach trailed Ghost, breathing heavily, exhausted. He still had to breach the front doors of the dwelling. Makarov’s men sprayed bullet fire from nearby cover, yelling wildly in Russian. Roach sprinted and crouched behind a dilapidated truck. He aimed down his scope and squeezed the trigger of his rifle as an assailant took fire at Ghost, who was hauling his way to the safe house entrance. The gunman slumped across the ammo boxes that he had momentarily used for cover, moved no more, and Roach reloaded with the grim satisfaction that his aim had been sure.

 “Breach and clear the safe house. Go! Go!” Ghost barked when the bullet storm the sounded across the grounds subsided.

Roach trampled the short distance to the wooden door. He nodded to Ghost before mounting the explosive, his head momentarily swimming with visions of Ghost from several hours before, intermingled with the troubled thoughts concerning Roach’s personal doubts. A cold shower room, scar-riddled flesh, a confrontation which led to unanticipated reciprocal feelings of… _well, respect? Admiration_? _Simon… has he really cared for me all along?_ And then the heat of their bodies colliding, the brush of stubble across his cheek, fingers caressing his body, the intense pleasure of his –

_BOOOM!_

Roach’s vision was suddenly blurred with dirt and debris as the door erupted, knocking him back to brutal reality. Ghost charged forward and fired into the threshold, Roach followed suit. He aimed at a gunman who haphazardly hurried down a staircase and shot him until the body crumpled down to the floor.

Ghost trained his rifle on an office room to their right. Bullets riddled the wooden floor, inches from the two soldiers, sending wood chips flying into Roach’s field of vision. Ignoring the debris, Roach concentrated on the source of the fire and spotted muzzles flashing from behind a flimsy desk in the disorganized office. Roach exhaled sharply, steadied his aim, and eliminated a target while Ghost disposed another. While Makarov seemingly had no shortage of goonies, the men were not well trained.

“Office clear!” Ghost yelled over the gunfire. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Roach followed his lieutenant back to the staircase and down a hallway to the back of the safe house, recalling his concerns from the previous night about the mission. He desperately wanted to guard Ghost’s every move, to be there for the unexpected, but each solider had their own specializations and mission tasks. Roach was the demolitions experts and if Makarov was absconding here he would undoubtedly hide behind a locked door. Makarov could be close.

 _Or, he could be in Afghanistan, in the old airplane boneyard, where Capt. MacTavish and Price will – no, it’s better if he’s here. I can’t flounder because there’s a chance that bastard_ might _not be hiding in this shit hole. He’s here and I’m fuckin’ ready to take him down._

“Ozone, make sure no one leaves through the kitchen,” Ghost ordered their comrade.

“Roger that,” Ozone complied briskly over the squadron’s comm channel.

Roach meandered quickly after Ghost through the estate and entered a kitchen that was furnished as a make-shift armory. Plastic tables stocked with ammo, explosive semtex, and miscellaneous contraband crowded the room. He found Ozone guarding the kitchen entrance with Ghost nearby.

“Scarecrow, gimme a sitrep,” Ghost talked into his headset.

“No one’s leaving through the front of the basement,” Scarecrow responded.

“Roach,” Ghost looked towards him, the face impossible to read beneath the balaclava and dark sunglasses, as the lieutenant spoke into his microphone. “Go upstairs and check any locked rooms on the top floor. Breach and clear.”

“Yes, sir,” Roach nodded, turned on his heel, and ascended the nearby staircase. He heard gunfire from below as he ran up the steps. The staccato of the bullets finding contact with wood and drywall intensified his resolve to eliminate the threats quickly and return to Ghost’s side.

 _Don’t let your feelings interfere… it’s not what_ he’d _want. Focus. Makarov…_

The sooner the task force cleared the safe house and located Makarov’s whereabouts, the sooner Roach’s heartbeat would normalize. The sooner he would know that he had not failed the one-four-one.  The incessant hammering in his chest nearly blocked out the death throes of dying men from the floor below.

“Dining room clear!” Ghost shouted over the radio.

Roach trained his rifle on the upstairs landing, heard angry Russian voices, and targeted two gunmen in a wooden hallway. He took cover behind the corner where the stairs and the hall met and sprayed bullets until the soldiers slumped to the floor. Roach proceeded, with caution, to check the unlocked rooms in the hallway but found nothing or no one of value. He hurried to retrieve an explosive from his tactical belt and placed it on the locked door for detonation.

Gunfire immediately sprayed from behind computers and boxes of the guarded room; Roach discerned two gunmen from the bright muzzle flashes. His rifle locked onto a figure that foolishly ran out from cover, firing wildly at Roach. He returned fire, sending a precise shot into the man’s skull. The other tango was wounded from the explosion, taking pot shots from behind an overturned table. Roach crouched behind the door frame and fired at the wounded enemy until the body cried out in agony and keeled over. Roach cautiously stepped from his cover, rifle trained across the room, and quickly scanned the corners and bulky objects for hidden targets. No movement. He examined the faces of the dead men who were not Makarov and suppressed a sigh.

“Top floor clear!” Roach yelled hoarsely over the radio. He swallowed, his mouth dry and lips chapped, hoping to stimulate the flow of saliva, but he was too dehydrated from the exertion. Cool sweat damped his armpits but otherwise his skin was hot and itchy, the layers of jacket and tactical gear stifling. He had experienced worse discomfort on other missions – he would not soon forgot the bone chilling cold of Kazakhstan and the scorching heat of Rio – but the stakes were no match for the present mission. At least one floor of the safe house was clear with no sign of Makarov.

“Top floor clear, roger,” Ghost confirmed. “Roach, go with Scarecrow and check the basement for enemy activity. Breach and clear. Go! Ozone, cover me.”

As Roach descended the stairs from the top floor, he heard gunfire from Ozone and Ghost coming from elsewhere in the house. He momentarily yearned to assist, but he had his orders directly from his lieutenant. He marched back to the kitchen, and travelled down a set of stairs to the basement. Scarecrow was poised on one knee at the bottom floor, rifle raised at the adjacent hallway.

“I’ve got your back, Roach,” Scarecrow greeted him. Roach nodded in reply, glad to have backup for the final sealed doors. Scarecrow was a good solider.

Roach observed a crumpled body at the end of the hallway. Scarecrow had already disposed of the assailants who had remained in the open. Roach placed an explosive on the nearest door. He fired shots into the opening as the wood splintered, his vision turned red as the bullets found contact with enemy flesh. As the dust settled and the blood pooled, Roach entered an impressive armory devoid of further hostiles. Time prohibited him from examining the weaponry; he had one final room to breach.

He proceeded to the hallway and placed an explosive on the remaining door, Scarecrow poised at the ready. It detonated and Roach fired at the scurrying figures at the back of the room. He could barely discern the movement through the debris but it was enough to make contact, the screams ensured that his aim was sure. He charged forward, using the haze from the explosion as cover, with Scarecrow on his trail. They eliminated two additional aggressors, neither of them Makarov.

The knowledge that Makarov was not in the basement provided little relief. The hammering in his chest intensified once more as a flash of anxious heat coursed over his flesh.

“Basement clear!” Scarecrow reported to the team after Roach failed to find his voice. _No Makarov… heavy losses… I have a bad feeling about –_

“Copy, basement clear,” Ghost affirmed. “All clear. Squad, regroup on me.”

The voice of his lieutenant snapped Roach back into the moment. _Ghost is okay, and he’ll know how to proceed… to make up for our losses_. Roach and Scarecrow scrambled to meet Ghost in the kitchen.

“Scarecrow, photographs,” Ghost commanded.

“Roger that,” the marksmen replied. He retrieved a camera from his vest and proceeded to capture documents scattered on counter tops and tables.

“Shepherd, this is Ghost, no sign of Makarov,” the lieutenant reported. “I repeat, no sign of Makarov. Captain Price, any luck in Afghanistan?”

“Plenty,” Roach’s radio crackled with the grizzled voice of the old warrior. “At least fifty-five guns here but no sign of Makarov. Perhaps our intel was off.”

 _Fuck. To hell with this op – a fuckin’ wild goose chase with no prize._ Roach’s stomach bubbled nervously. But as shitty as the situation was, he was relieved to hear Price’s voice. _At least he and MacTavish are alright…_

“Well, the quality of the intel’s about to change,” Ghost replied confidently. “This safe house is a bloody gold mine.”

Roach perked at that. He had not closely studied any of the paperwork scattered about but he had noted the computers. It was a lead they had to follow up on – anything that could point them to Makarov.

This time, it was General Shepherd who answered. “Copy that. Ghost, have your team collect everything you can for an operations playbook – names, contacts, places, everything.”

“We’re already on it, sir. Makarov will have nowhere to run,” Ghost said, all grim sincerity.

“That’s the idea. I’m bringing up an extraction force, E.T.A. five minutes. Get that intel. Shepherd out.”

There was not a moment of hesitation from Ghost. “Roach, get on Makarov’s computer and start a transfer. Ozone, you’re on rear security. I’ve got the front. Go!”

“On my way,” Ozone replied.

“Got it,” Roach nodded. He admired Ghost’s knack for quick and level-headed tactics. _Alright, five minutes… that’s all we need and we’re outta here with the goods. We’ve got this._

“Task Force, this is Price. More of Makarov's men just arrived at the boneyard... Soap, cover me. I'm gonna slot that guy over there and use his radio to tap into their comms. Ghost, we're going silent for a few minutes. Good luck up there in Russia. Price out.”

 _They’ve got a plan… we’ve got a plan, and extraction inbound._ Roach exhaled deeply as he reloaded his firearm. His heartbeat had slowed since breaching the basement but the adrenaline of combat intensified every footstep, every crinkle of paper. He was on edge.

“Roach, connect the DSM to Makarov's computer,” Ghost commanded, his gaze lingering on Roach for a brief moment of hesitation, before he charged for the front door of the safe house. Roach approached a series of desktop computers adjacent to the office and located the DSM. He secured the connection and read the tiny analog display: DSM v6.04 … working …

“DSM working,” Roach called to the team.

“Roach, did you see the armory in the basement? Better stock up while you can,” Ozone’s voice buzzed from the radio.

Roach proceed back downstairs, passed the corpse in the breached doorway, and scanned the stock lining the walls. He retrieved a grenade launcher with a sight and slung it over his back. It added to the bulk of his assault rifle but he had no idea what was coming their way. He wanted to be prepared and he could not risk abandoning the DSM for too long. Roach pocketed ammo for the rifle and grenade launcher and spotted a few claymores. He clipped a few to his belt, the weight of his new acquisitions burdening his frame. _Five minutes… just five minutes… and besides, we get attacked and the load ought to lighten as I go…_

Roach rushed up the stairs as fast as his loadout allowed. He planted a claymore by the back entrance of the kitchen.

“Claymore planted at the rear,” Roach informed his team.

“Any more?” Ghost called. Roach scurried to the front door of the safe house where Ghost stood at the ready. Roach handed a claymore to Ghost, their gloved hands brushed in the exchange. It was enough contact for Roach’s stomach to flip momentarily. He had not eaten in hours but felt a pressure in this throat as if he had just gorged himself and his body wanted to reject the intake. Stress mingled with excitement, adrenaline mixed with the endorphins released in Ghost’s presence as Roach momentarily recalled the other man’s touch, the urgency of his rough and desperate kisses, the timid way he had explored and caressed Roach’s body. He swallowed again but his throat remained stubbornly dry.

Roach muted his mic. “I’ve got the DSM covered… good luck, sir,” He told Ghost privately.

Ghost nodded and made to plant his claymore just beyond the blasted doorframe. The lieutenant’s voice crackled over the comm, “Makarov's men are going to do whatever it takes to keep us from leaving with this intel. We need to protect the DSM until the transfer's done. Use the weapons caches and set up your claymores if you've got any left. Defensive positions, let's go!”

Roach heard the acknowledgements of Ozone, “Ready to engage,” and Scarecrow, “I'm in position” as he returned to the large, outdated computer where the DSM continued to download the encrypted files. It was delicate and would not take much damage to destroy the transfer should hostiles engage. For a moment, the forced intake of Roach’s inhale-exhale was all he heard.  

The silence lasted a matter of seconds. Roach heard ominous explosions in the distance.

“What the hell was that?” Scarecrow’s voice was nearly obscured by the noise of approaching helicopter blades that _thwumped_ through the air. 

“Enemy fast-attack choppers coming in from the northwest,” Archer radioed from his sniping position.

“Roger that. Enemy helos approaching from the northwest,” Ghost confirmed.

Roach trained his rifle to the large windows in the office and spotted the helo as it swooped towards the ground. He saw armed soldiers preparing to disembark as he ran to the windows and fired his rile, glass shattering as the bullets passed through the cheap windowpane. A gunmen toppled out of the copter, dead, before his comrades leapt from the bird and returned fire.

“We gotta cover the front lawn!” Scarecrow yelled.

“No activity back here yet. I'm moving to the main windows, I need someone to mine and cover the driveway approach,” Ozone replied.

“Roach, use your claymores on the driveway and pull back to the house!” Ghost ordered. Roach heard the fire from Ozone’s rifle as he approached the windowed office and dispatched an enemy. _Now, to assist Ghost with the front…_ Roach gritted his teeth and ran desperately.

Roach spotted and collected more claymores off the floor, stored with other supplies in a makeshift cache. He dodged incoming fire and bolted towards the driveway. Ghost was huddled behind the old truck that Roach had previously utilized for cover before breaching the safe house.

“I’ll cover your ass,” Ghost spoke to Roach privately as their rifles targeted the drive for threats. _He said the same thing last night, after…_ well, words failed to describe their situation. _Tryst? Fated encounter? Lustful rendezvous?_ Whatever it had been, Ghost’s reference to the previous night was a private acknowledgement that he too recalled their meeting, and that he was unashamed, perhaps… _fond of the memory?_

“I’ll be quick,” Roach replied with a slight smirk which belied his nerves, a claymore in hand as he stepped out from cover. He trusted the man to have his back… _But I didn’t expect this much of a shit storm…_ He heard Ghost’s fire as he planted several claymores across the breadth of the drive, only pausing once to check for threats, and saw a body crumple in the distance courtesy of a precision shot from the lieutenant.

“Squad, we’ve got the front secured with claymores,” Ghost informed the task force. But it was no time for relief.

“Be advised, you have a large concentration of hostiles moving in from the southeast, they've just breached the perimeter! I'll try to thin 'em out before they get too close. Recommend you switch to scoped weapons, over,” Archer barked over the comm.

Roach and Ghost were already running in unison. If Roach had thought himself exhausted before the approach of the oncoming assault, it paled to what he felt now. Adrenaline pulsed through his body but he ached under the load of the grenade launcher and ammo.

“Roger that! Everyone cover the field to the southeast! Move!” Ghost commanded, he turned and entered the kitchen.

“I got eyes on! Here they come! They're in the field to the southeast!” Ozone yelled on radio.

Roach passed Ghost, who was shooting from a broken window. The windows lining most of the safe house were already shattered. Roach spotted enemies creeping through the trees for cover as they advanced. Roach swapped his rifle for the hefty grenade launcher and took aim – 

_THUMP!_

The grenade sailed through the air, landed near a small group of assailants, and exploded. Body parts flew among a cloud of smoke and dirt. The surrounding survivors scattered with shrieks and a slew of Russian profanities. He launched another grenade and managed to hit a few of the runners.

“I have eyes on additional hostile forces moving in on your position. They're approaching from the solar panels east of the house,” Archer reported.

“They're moving in from the solar panels east of the house!” Ghost confirmed. Roach noted from his peripheral vision that he departed the area after eliminating the imminent threats from the southeast.

“Roger, I'll try to cut 'em off as they come through the trees,” Scarecrow replied.

“Use your claymores if you have 'em. Plant 'em around the trail east of the house,” Ghost suggested.

A slight moment of relief washed over Roach as he listened to the voices over the radio. _Team’s still here… and so is the enemy. But we’re better._ Roach turned and ran to check on the DSM progress. He saw the enemies pour through the front door. He knew it was too late to plant additional claymores… _But at least the ones I planted out in the drive should reduce their numbers_. Roach went prone to the floor, retrieved his rifle, and fired at the soldiers who were too focused on the computers to notice him. A Russian goon shrieked and collapsed, a stretched out arm that reached for the DSM fell limply. Ozone blasted another soldier.

_Gotcha fuckers!_

“Hostiles approaching from the west!” Archer barked from his sniper cover. Roach’s momentary elation dissipated with the intensifying sound of enemy activity.

 _They just keep fuckin’ coming…_ The size of Makarov’s movement dawned on Roach in that moment. _We can’t stop them all. Hell, how much longer? As long as we make it with the intel in one piece…_

“They must be by the boathouse, everyone over the west approach!” Ghost yelled.

“RPG team moving in from the southwest!” Archer was on the comm again.

“Got it! RPG team moving in from the southwest!” Ozone echoed.

“We got 240s and RPGs in the dining room windows, plus L86 machine guns,” Scarecrow’s voice followed. 

“Roger that, use 'em to cut 'em down as they come through the tree line!” Ghost approved.

Roach had to act, boathouse or dining room… the threat of RPGs pressed him to the dining room window. If an RPG missile destroyed a computer or disrupted the DSM connection, the entire mission would be compromised, their sacrifices for naught. He again hefted the grenade launcher and took aim on the approaching forces as they appeared from the dense greenery. He squeezed – 

PHHHHHHHZZZZAP!

Roach’s peripheral vision saw the curling smoke, the approaching missile. He ducked, laid prone, as an explosion erupted on the wall twenty or so feet behind him. He listened, heard the hurried footsteps of the gunmen, and listened for the distinct sound of an RPG firing amongst the cacophony of the battle. Occasionally, he heard Ghost, Ozone, or Scarecrow shout the location of approaching tangos above the fray. But no sounds of RPG fire. He cautiously raised his head and peered above the window frame. He observed the location of the assailants, ducked again, readied the grenade launcher, and fired three times as he crouched and took aim above the shattered glass. No movement. He steadied his breath and reloaded.

He returned to the DSM to check for targets and heard movement on the property outside. _They’re still fucking coming… fuck!_ He ducked behind a sofa for cover as three Russians poured in through the open front door. He met their fire with a flash grenade, which gave him the advantage as they winced and panicked at the blinding flash powder and the ringing from the concussive shock. Roach readied his rifle and shot the men until they no longer moved, blood seeping onto their fatigues.

Ghost emerged in the adjacent room, running past the DSM. “Roach, the transfer's complete! I'll cover the main approach while you get the DSM! Move!” He ordered.

Gunfire still erupted around the estate, but they had the files, and now it was a matter of desperate escape. Roach discarded the heavy grenade launcher, ignored his aches, bruises, and cuts, and fled to the device. He scooped up the DSM and tucked it securely in an inner pocket of his jacket. 

“This is Shepherd. We're almost at the LZ. What's your status, over?” The general asked calmly over the comm.

“We're on our way to the LZ! Roach, let's go!” Ghost yelled over the sound of his rifle, the bullets pecking away at Makarov’s men who hid behind cover just beyond the safe house. Ghost started towards the extraction point, Ozone behind him, with Roach at the rear.

“Scarecrow?” Roach called.

“Killed in action,” Ghost spat bitterly. “Let’s go!”

 _Shit!_ Roach wanted to kill every last bastard on the property, wanted to see their corpses rot with decay. But he refused to allow his anger over Scarecrow’s demise to cloud his judgement. The three men sprinted through the long grassy field that extended past the safe house. Roach spotted a large pond, a decaying fence, a wood barn.

 _If Makarov’s men were out this far, they’d be using that barn for cover._ Before he could warn the others, soldiers fired wildly from the backside of the barn. Roach scampered for a nearby tree, went prone, and lost sight of Ghost and Ozone. He concentrated on the desperate gunmen, who sacrificed precision and ammo for frenzied fire. He managed to take one down, reloaded, and noticed Ghost crouched behind a rusting tractor a few yards ahead of him. Ghost fired at the assailants and Roach heard gunshots from back at the safe house. Makarov’s men had them flanked in essentially every direction. 

 _Extraction close… not much further…_ Roach’s body trembled as he attempted to steady himself in a crouch position, the fatigue taking a toll on his motor functions. But he was alert, hyperaware of every sound and movement around him. He fired back at the direction where he heard the gunshots and heard panicked yells and cursing.

“Let’s move!” Ghost yelled, the lieutenant moved rapidly through the grass, passing large bales of rolled straw and farming equipment. As Roach ran, he saw the field transform into a rolling, downward hill and thought that perhaps they had escaped the worse –

Roach sensed the stress in Ghost’s voice before he understood his words. “They're bracketing our position with mortars, keep moving but watch your back! Roach, I got you covered!”

Roach hesitated, heard the thunderous booms coupled with fountains of dirt that erupted across the landscape from mortar fire. He saw no sign of Ozone.

“Go! Go! Get to the LZ! Keep moving!” Ghost yelled, and it was the first time Roach could discern the uneven panic in the soldier’s voice. Ghost was no longer charging ahead; the lieutenant was waiting on Roach to proceed first. “We gotta get to the LZ! Roach, come on!”

He peered down the hill and noted the gradual slope levelled into an open field. The landing zone. Safety. Home. And it was just him and Ghost. He swallowed.

“Ozone? Archer? ...Toad?!” Roach stammered.

“Roach, I'll cover you! Move! Go! Go!” Ghost grabbed Roach’s bicep and shoved him forward hard, forcing Roach’s legs to automatically break into a run with the slope of the land, the weight of his rifle and kit dragging him onwards, increasing his momentum.

Roach ran until the shadows of the tree line broke onto a sunny field.   _It’s all happened so bloody fast._ Ghost and Roach the sole survivors of a full assault on Makarov’s safe house. They had lost so much to retrieve the files concealed in his jacket. Roach desperately hoped that whatever information was stored on the DSM that it brought about Makarov’s capture, or better, death. He made to turn for Ghost, not daring to proceed forward without him. _Fuck… I’ll die before I lose Simon, too._

An explosion collided with the ground not five feet from him. Roach dodged, attempted to glance backward for Ghost once more, and another explosion missed him by inches. He felt the heat of the flash on his face –

When suddenly bright red and yellow burned in Roach’s eyes before another explosion knocked him off his feet.  He saw nothing but heard a ringing – a growing ringing that was joined by a loud cockney accent. Roach managed a blink, a black balaclava with a grinning skull materialized over him as a strong grip forced him to sit up, and shoved an AK-47 in his hands.

“I've got you, Roach, hang on!” The voice bellowed. “Thunder Two-One, I've popped red smoke in the tree line! Standby to engage on my mark.”

 _Fuck… must ‘ave been hit with projectile from mortar…_ The pain was staggering; the intensity overwhelmed Roach. His ears rang and he could hardly discern the sounds of ensuing combat. Roach’s heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest as he weakly lifted the AK-47, and fired at the muzzle flashes that emerged from the dark trees at the edge of the hill.

Roach suddenly lurched and long grass whipped at his face. He was being dragged backwards, away from the combat zone. Ghost. 

Roach barely discerned a new voice over the comm. “Roger that. I have a visual on the red smoke. Standing by.” 

“Thunder Two-One, cleared hot!” Ghost yelled.

“Roger that, cleared hot. Guns, guns, guns.”

Roach’s vision faded but he continued firing towards the tree line. He wanted to black out, to rest, the shooting sapped his energy, but he could not – no, would not stop firing until they were on that copter. Ghost was risking his life for him, to bring him back alive. Roach had to cover their escape. 

A Little Bird helicopter swooped low over Ghost and Roach, guns firing at the red smoke at the base of the tree line, the bullet spray killed the remaining hostiles. Roach fought to maintain his vision… but the dark was beckoning, if he could just rest a moment. He felt oddly warm and comfortable –

“Roach, hang in there!” Ghost’s hand found Roach’s and pulled him onto his feet. Roach slumped into his lieutenant and took comfort in the man’s solid build as he leaned into him. Roach could hardly form a coherent thought yet alone maintain his bearings. He nearly slumped back to the ground, if Ghost had not placed his arm around Roach’s back for support.

“Come on, get up! Get up! Get up! We're almost there!” Ghost encouraged Roach to move forward as the Little Bird landed ahead of them. 

“Ghos- Ss – Sssimon,” Roach murmured, inaudible above the sound of the copter’s blades. Roach’s own heavy breathing filled his eardrums.

General Shepherd emerged from the rear door of the pave low, “Do you have the DSM?” A few Shadow Company soldiers flanked the general. A vague sense of contentment and safety filled Roach, as it faintly registered that he had succeeded. The DSM was safe. He and Ghost had made it. 

“We got it, sir!” Ghost replied triumphantly.

“Good, that’s one less loose end,” Shepherd replied, stoic, his eyes hardened into slits. Roach’s eyes were heavy but he saw the quick flash of silver gleaming in the sunlight from a magnum-shaped object in the general’s outstretched hand. Roach, weakened, incoherent, had no time to react –

 _BAAAANG!_  

Shepherd lurched backward at an odd angle, and Roach could clearly identify the magnum now, as the general’s arms fell back with the momentum of his slumping body. The general attempted to speak with a thick gurgling sound as blood sputtered and pooled from his gaping mouth.

Roach saw everything in red and fell to the earth, a sharp, deep pain in his abdominal region.

“NOOOOO!” Ghost bellowed, turning to Roach, already on the ground. Roach’s eyes clouded, but he managed to discern that Ghost was quick not to leave himself exposed. He raised his rifle at the faceless Shadow Company soldiers. 

“Shots fired, shots fired!” a Shadow Company solider yelled, pulled his rifle on Ghost.

“It was sniper fire!” a soldier barked. 

“The general?” another asked.

Multiple loud _bangs_ rang out across the field. For Roach, it sounded far away, as distant as Price and MacTavish were in their boneyard op in the Middle East. He silently wished they were here, and blacked out.


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost and Roach survive the safe house assault only to face an uneasy alliance with their unexpected saviors. Along with Price and MacTavish, the surviving members of the task force are coerced into assisting an Anti-Inner Circle paramilitary group. As Ghost comes to understand his feelings towards Roach, Price intervenes with unwanted advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to finish this chapter before classes start... which happens to be tomorrow! Eek!  
> I appreciate any and all feedback, as it's been a while since I've written any fiction - yet alone set within this universe.  
> And a thank you to all readers! <3

**Chapter 2: Recovery**

 

Shepherd’s corpse lay in a pool of slowly congealing blood. Ghost raised a hand to his balaclava and pulled the edge of the fabric above his lips, and spat on the leader he once trusted. There was no mistaking the general’s attempted actions as anything but cold, calculated betrayal. Ghost momentarily pictured unsheathing his knife, digging the blade into the old man’s slack face, removing his eyes, the nose, and lips with the care of a surgeon, one by one until the body was no longer identifiable. But it would not bring back Ozone, Scarecrow, Archer, or Toad, and right now he had to focus on saving the one man still alive on his squad. Roach was possibly on the brink of death, dark red had seeped quickly across his abdomen after Shepherd’s .44 magnum round made contact, and Roach had already lost consciousness and a good deal of blood. Ghost returned his mask to its original position, hiding the hardline of his mouth, and observed Roach’s caretakers: a woman and a man wearing combat fatigues.

 

Ghost had witnessed, in a matter of seconds, a bullet entering Shepherd’s skull, his magnum simultaneously firing and hitting Roach, and the panicked Shadow Company soldiers turning their firearms against him. But Ghost had been faster, landing a deadly hit on the closest of the off-guard gunmen. The additional support from the unexpected Russian military group made quick work of Shadow Company. Even Shepherd’s helicopter pilot was dispatched. Ghost had turned his weapon upon the Russian paramilitary group when they emerged from the hilled tree line moments after Shadow Company no longer presented a threat. But they did not fire at him and the sniper rifles in hand made it clear who had killed the general and his lackeys. Ghost had run to Roach’s side, feeling incompetent in his inability to assuage the soldier’s wounds, and when a Russian approached him and offered medical treatment, Ghost had little choice in the matter.

 

 _A goddamn Chrimbo miracle, sure –_ Ghost’s head throbbed from the incessant gunfire that had drowned his hearing during the past hour as he racked his brain to understand everything that had transpired – _But I don’t trust ‘em. Not exactly out of the woods yet._

“He will live,” the woman replied while standing up from Roach’s side, as he lay on the ground attended by another soldier. She said something in Russian to the man who had applied the dressings to Roach’s wound and was applying pressure to suppress the blood flow.

 

Ghost was still trying to size her up. Even before he had scrutinized her combat attire, he recognized the military training in her posture and body language. She was dressed in assault gear, a sniper rifle slung across her back, with heavy pouches and ammo cases strapped to her legs and belt. The insignia of the Ultranationalist political party emblazoned on a shoulder patch was unsurprising given her native tongue. She had the hardened look of a warrior etched into her features, a stern but attractive face with frizzy auburn hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Ghost reckoned she was about thirty, only a few years younger than himself.

 

“Care to tell me who the _bloody_ fuck you are and why we’re still alive?” Ghost grunted. How many of Mak’s men had he and his team slaughtered at the safe house? This woman, who supported the same cause that Makarov’s Inner Circle had splintered from, was not exactly an ally. The Russian attack on U.S. soil roughly twenty-four hours ago in Washington, D.C. had anchored that fact.

 

A corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Is that how you say ‘you’re welcome?’ from where you are from?”

 

“I don’t have time for this,” Ghost jabbed a finger in the air with frustration. “I’ve a man dyin’ here!” he yelled.

 

“I told you, he will live. No spinal injuries, we can move him,” She spoke calmly as sweat beaded her dirty brow, a remnant from the firefight that had broken out mere minutes ago. She paused, as if attempting to read Ghost’s concealed face – an impossible task – her eyes narrowing as she skimmed over his uniform. Her eyes lingered for a moment on a Task Force 141 patch sewn onto his belt pouch.

 

“We will talk later. Best to head to a safe place… unless, you want the rest of his men to find you?” She indicated the corpse of General Shepherd with her chin, and turned on her heel towards the U.S. copter. Ghost wanted answers but this was not the time nor the place. Most of Makarov’s men had been disposed but more could still arrive at any moment. Or worse, U.S. Army personnel would be following up on Shepherd’s current whereabouts. Even taking the U.S. bird was a risk but they could always dump it after covering a substantial amount of ground. Ghost was not about to take any unnecessary risks. His top priority now was to get Roach to safety and reconnect with MacTavish and Price.

 

 _I don’t fancy this little alliance, but what choice have I?_ Ghost’s personal radar was on, alarmed and distrusting. He was outnumbered, out of ammo, and while he struggled to understand why he and Roach had been spared during the ambush, he was not about to complain that the Russian sniper team had assassinated the rogue Shepherd.

 

The Russian woman waved down the small group of soldiers who had stood back towards the tree line, the men scrambling to her position. Ghost had suspected it, but it was now as clear as Shepherd’s attempted murder of Roach. _She’s calling the shots. She’s their leader._

 

Two Russians carried Roach onto the copter, the young soldier’s body slack. _Bloody hell, if I hadn’t forced him ahead, maybe the mortar wouldn’t have gotten him…_ guilt and anger washed over Ghost like a cold draft. If Roach did not survive this, he was not sure if he could forgive himself. _I made a promise to protect him; that we’d make it through this mission –_

“Goddamit!” Ghost roared, rage unhinging at his thoughts. Hot fury boiled from the pit of his stomach as he suddenly pounced on Shepherd’s corpse and battered the dead man’s face with a flurry of punches. It made Ghost angrier that the general was not alive to react and beg for mercy, the punches landing harder, faster. The general’s nose crushed into a bloody pulp, a zygomatic bone snapped and concaved a cheek, and the lips cracked open until the face was no longer recognizable. Red splatter flecked across Ghost’s sunglasses as shredded skin embedded into his gloved fists.

 

A pair of arms tugged at Ghost roughly, a voice yelled above the whirring of the spinning copter blades. “We need to go. Now!” The Russian woman called, a faint trace of pity gleamed in her greenish-brown eyes. But Ghost was about to land another punch, abandoning all reason to his bloodthirst.

 

“Ghost! Come in, this is Price!” The frantic voice crackled over Ghost’s headset, made him pause mid-swing. “We're under attack by Shepherd's men at the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!—”

 

Ghost jumped to his feet. “Price! Copy that. Shepherd is dead, I repeat Shepherd is dead,” he managed to croak, his breath hard and labored. “Entire squad K.I.A. with exception of myself and Roach. We’ve a copter for transportation.”

 

“Good,” Priced crackled, the signal fading. “We’ll regroup and plan accordingly. Killing Shepherd won’t exactly land us the Medal of Honor. Not that we’re bloody Yanks, in any case…”

 

“Didn’t kill him, sir. Will go over details later. Area might still be hot.”

 

“Meet us at the one-four-one rendezvous point. Can’t risking staying on this frequency more than necessary. Price out,” his voice nearly consumed in static when he ended the comm.

 

Ghost pulled a slip of crinkled paper out of a pocket and stared at the coordinates of a rendezvous point that served as an unofficial Task Force 141 safe house. Only Price, McTavish, and Ghost had access to the information should they ever need a private place to reform, strictly off the record. They had disobeyed the chain of command by concealing the location from General Shepherd – not that Ghost had ever cared – he just never imagined they would actually use it. Ghost admired Price’s foresight and the notion of getting Roach to a safe place brought him back to reason. His rage began to quell even as he spared the corpse of General Shepherd one last glance, the bloodied mangled face seared into his memory. The image would serve as a catalyst for bloodlust should he ever lack inspiration for battle.

 

The woman motioned to the copter. Ghost shoved the paper at her, “I’ve to get to these coordinates. As soon as bloody possible.” 

 

She took the paper and nodded. “We can arrange that. Let me speak with Anatoli, my pilot.” She jogged ahead and approached a squat but strong-looking man in his early forties with a trimmed beard.

 

Ghost stepped into the helo and approached Roach. He was positioned on his back on the cold floor, a duffle bag as a makeshift head rest. He no longer had an attendant and his dressing looked like it had stopped the blood flow. Ghost was impressed with the medical attention provided by the Russians, considering they were not strictly allies. Roach’s eyes were closed, but beneath his eye lids, Ghost could see movement, as if Roach might be having a nightmare. Ghost knelt by his sergeant and placed a bloodied gloved hand on his shoulder, gently.

 

“Sanderson?” Ghost called, his voice hoarse and rough. Roach was still, aside from his eye movements underneath the lids. “Gary?” Ghost breathed, a bit louder. _C’mon mate… lemme know you’re gonna make it… just say anythin’…_ Ghost suddenly paused his own thoughts. ‘ _Mate?’ Is that the damn word I should be usin’?_

Ghost was transported to their chance encounter the night before. It felt like another lifetime ago when he had confessed to Roach that his insular nature and stern disposition towards him and others was his own way of protecting his men, of ensuring their survival on the battlefield. It was his own way of protecting himself, too, from emotional attachment. Roach accepted Ghost for who he was but had wanted to encourage him to let others in, to live a life worth living. And afterwards, the cheeky bastard had actually propositioned him – suggesting that Roach could make him feel something again – _And, I felt somethin’ alright…_

Hot skin, heaving chests, his hardness held and stroked within Roach’s deft hand until he had released all over the sergeant who was so transfixed by him. But it was more than just lust, as Ghost recalled the feeling of satisfaction coupled with a knowledge that some things _were_ worth living for, such as the bond that two people could experience even at the brink of despair. Ghost had not intended on anything of that nature transpiring between himself and a subordinate, and they had taken measures to avoid detection on base, but Ghost had needed someone that night – had been grateful even, to have shared it with Gary. Now he wished he could somehow trade places with the younger man who had risked so much to ensure the proper retrieval of the DSM and might pay the ultimate sacrifice for his service.

 

“He may be experiencing shock,” The Russian medic grunted and draped a thick parachute cloth over Roach, “We want to make sure his body temperature stays consistent.”

 

Ghost considered it fortunate that the Russian had clearly handled this situation before but he was furious that Roach had to experience it to begin with. _He doesn’t deserve this!_ The hand not resting on Roach’s shoulder formed a fist and punched the floor of the helo.  

 

The woman who saved Roach was sitting at the opposite end of the copter, she looked at him from across the bay, startled by the sound. Ghost stood up and walked the short distance. The bird was now flying up into the air, the white peaks of the Caucasus Mountains visible outside the viewports.    

 

“So, fancy a chat?” Ghost was sardonic, irritated for waiting. _Could be worse, if this woman and her group hadn’t been ‘round to save our asses._ Ghost forced himself to acknowledge that much and toned down his bristling agitation. He glanced back at Roach and was momentarily calmed by the sight of the soldier’s chest rising and falling beneath the parachute-turned-blanket.

 

“You expect me to ‘chat’ with a man who hides his face like a coward?” She challenged dryly. “For all I know, you could be Vladimir Makarov under that mask.”

 

“Reckon if you knew I was Makarov, I wouldn’t be sittin’ at your side this moment. Take it he’s no friend of yours?” Ghost figured that if this woman had worked for Makarov’s faction, he and Roach would have been killed along with Shepherd. He knew there were members of the Ultrantionalist Party who despised Makarov’s brutal tactics and insane vision for returning Russia to pre-parliamentary rule.   

 

“Da. I am field commander of the Anti-Inner Circle movement that saved your asses,” she stated coolly.

 

“Looks like you dunno where Mak is, either. Why go after Shepherd? Not that I don’t appreciate the assist, but, let’s just say I didn’t see it comin’ myself,” Ghost admitted.

 

“It’s true – we don’t know where Makarov is now. Seems we were following the same faulty intel that brought your team to the safe house. Only we traced the intel back to General Shepherd. Our hackers located his private server and found encrypted communications with his right-hand man in Shadow Company. Upon deciphering the message, it became clear that your dear general has instigated World War III. How is that for an American hero?” She scoffed.

 

Ghost hung on every word, unsurprised given the shit storm that had transpired. Shepherd’s actions today certainly convinced him of the double-dealing. “Explains why he was keen to take out my squad. Claim all the glory and fame for himself. Your timin’ was impeccable... commander,” Ghost trailed, uncertain about using rank with the Russian.

 

“Natalia Isayev,” she offered.

 

“Simon Riley,” Ghost gave his name, preferring his call sign to stay within the confines of his own men. “So you take out the general for retaliation, or to further demoralize the U.S. Army. You know that President Vorshevsky and the POTUS are currently discussing a truce?”

 

“Not to demoralize the U.S. but to end a war. You believe General Shepherd would have permitted that truce? I cannot say with certainty, but his documents suggested he was seeking ways of prolonging the war, of instigating further conflict. We had to dispose of him before he launched an assault on Russian soil,” she spat.

 

Ghost pondered her words. It was logical given that Shepherd had previously ordered the task force to focus exclusively on finding Makarov and to avoid meddling in the Russia-US conflict. But Captain Price had directly defied those orders when he led the task force, Roach and himself included, on a rogue operation to infiltrate a submarine base near Petropavlovsk. The mission resulted in Price launching a submarine-launched ballistic missile into the upper atmosphere above Washington, DC, resulting in an EMP blast that gave an advantage to the US forces fighting the Russians. If Price had not acted, had not defied the general, the US Armed Forces may have lost the battle.

 

“Gonna have to ask you to share that intel with us… we’ll need it to clear our names. You didn’t spare me and my only survivin’ soldier just to throw us to the dogs,” Ghost stated matter-of-fact, wondering how Price and MacTavish had discovered Shepherd’s duplicity. _Probably ambushed during their mission by Shadow Company. But they can handle ‘em._    

 

“Let’s just say… we recognize the value of Task Force 141,” she met his gaze with a hard stare, unfaltering as her eyes scrutinized his mask. “We share common goal, even if our motivations differ: take down Makarov, at all costs.”

 

***

 

Ghost was by Roach’s side when the helo landed in a remote field in southern Armenia. He gingerly lifted Roach’s shoulders and torso up while Anatoli, the pilot, grabbed the wounded soldier by his legs and feet. Together they carried him out of the helicopter and into the dusk.

 

Roach stirred by the movement. Ghost could just discern in the dying light the white gleam of Roach’s eyes as they slowly flickered open.

 

“You okay?” Ghost queried.

 

_Bloody stupid thing to ask, really…_

Roach groaned slightly in reply, “I – I was sh-shot… at the safe house?”

 

“’Fraid so, but you’ll make it. We’ve been extracted and we’re to regroup with Price and MacTavish.”

 

“The Dee-DSM… di-did Shepherd g-get the DSM? Do we know whe – .”

 

Ghost cut him off, not wanting Anatoli privy to their intel, “Roach… what exactly is the last thing you remember?” And Ghost was concerned, too.

 

“We – we made it to the LZ, saw Shepherd… wa – was hit by a mortar though and I bla – blacked out? Wa – was I hit by a bullet after that?”

 

 “There’s more… but I’ll ask you to wait a moment. Price and MacTavish are expectin’ us,” Ghost gently set Roach into the grass with assistance from the Russian pilot.

 

“Wa-wait… who’s he? Who are these men?” Roach’s voice edged on panic as he noticed Anatoli and the others disembarking from the helo.

 

“Allies, believe it or not,” Ghost replied. Fatigue had set in and his mind was dulled. Perhaps, had he been sharper, he would have introduced the Russian paramilitary group with more enthusiasm.

 

Anatoli looked at him, dislike hardening his features. Ghost’s somewhat tactless language had not impressed the pilot. “Why don’t you get to the part where you two wouldn’t be _alive_ if –”

 

“Anatoli, enough. Let’s just get them where they need to be, for now,” Isayev approached. “Riley,” She cocked her head towards Ghost. “Place is quiet. I sent some men to do recon but nothing so far. Are you certain your comrades are here?”

 

“Allow me to assist your men,” Ghost suggested. If Price and MacTavish were in the vicinity, they would avoid bringing unnecessary attention to themselves under the present circumstances.

 

_Can’t risk usin’ our old radio frequency at this time, but if they’ve left a trail or message I would recognize it…_

 

“Go,” she urged.  Ghost nodded, but decided to check on Roach first.

 

“That guy special ops, eh? Looks like he’s to play paintball, if ye’ ask me,” Ghost heard Anatoli mutter to Isayev as he knelt to Roach’s side. He decided to ignore the Russian; it was hardly the first time Ghost had overheard someone giving him shit about his unconventional gear. They never dared say it to his face but rather when they _thought_ he was out of earshot. The indirect criticism showed that Ghost unsettled Anatoli and the lieutenant was more than comfortable with that notion.

 

“Sanderson. Gary,” Ghost called to Roach who clutched at himself in pain, eyes watered and red. His dressings were a dark brown, the blood no longer fresh.  

 

“Gonna scout the area for the remainin’ task force. Made it to a private rendezvous,” Ghost explained, as he gingerly patted Roach’s unzipped jacket. He felt the hard, square object inside an inner pocket. The DSM. Ghost could not risk leaving Roach unattended with Makarov’s entire playbook, knowing full well that the impromptu alliance with Isayev’s cause could suddenly go south should the Russians learn of the priceless intelligence and decide to seize it for themselves. Ghost maintained steady eye contact with Roach, indicating the sensitivity of his actions, and the solider seemingly understood, not asking questions as Ghost’s hand slide inside of Roach’s jacket. He ensured that his body blocked from view his retrieval of the DSM as he pocketed the device into his own coat. 

 

“There’s loads to explain but the priority here is gettin’ you cleaned up and on the mend,” Ghost said as Roach peered up at him, breathing slow and labored.

 

“Thanks…” Roach managed and placed a gloved hand on Ghost’s own. Not wanting to bring needless attention to themselves, Ghost stood up and broke contact. Roach’s eyes were more watered than moments before. _Hurts to see him like that, but there’s a time an’ place for everything._

“I’ll return,” Ghost said as his silhouette dissolved into the darkness of the grassy plain.

 

He walked further away from the landed helo surrounded by flares, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark blue dusk, until the copter was on the horizon to the southeast. He removed his sunglasses into a jacket pocket and listened for signs of life. The rustle of wind-swept grass across the gentle, sloping curves of the terrain. The chorus of chirping crickets, an occasional swish of a swooping bat. Ghost scanned the skyline, saw a group of Natalia’s men to his south, a tree line to the north, a large stone-structure to the east that reminded him of St. Mary’s church in Credenhill. And then Ghost detected the faintest _crunch_ of movement upon the earth.

 

He brandished his pistol, held steady, and waited for a sound or movement.

 

“Don’t think you’ll be needing that,” The gruff voice of Captain Price spoke as he emerged from a prone position and another, larger figure followed suit.

 

“Ghost?” MacTavish was already walking forward while holstering his pistol. The Scotsman’s arms spread outward and engulfed Ghost in a bear hug.

 

Ghost clapped his captain’s back earnestly. “Bloody hell, it’s good to see you,” He released MacTavish and shook hands with Price. “What happened out there?” he asked.

 

“Attacked by Shepherd’s men, Shadow Company. Had a nasty confrontation with a so-called ‘Viper.’ Claimed he was the best of the general’s men. Load of bollocks if you ask me,” Price replied.

 

“Who else is with you? How’d you make it here?” Ghost prodded.

 

MacTavish sighed. “Just us, Ghost. No other survivors. And we pulled a favor from our old friend, Nikolai, who extracted us in the nick o’ time. He’ll return tomorrow with supplies,” MacTavish replied, looking crestfallen with the slump of his shoulders, as if he struggled himself to fully comprehend the scope of their losses.

 

“We saw your bird land, but it’s US Army, as you know, so we had to lie low until we found out otherwise… Never did see another solider with that mask,” MacTavish grinned, if somewhat half-heartedly, giving Ghost a playful nudge with an elbow, “Guess you borrowed the helo from Shep?”

 

“Not me, exactly… an Anti-Inner Circle paramilitary group. Woman in charge, calls herself Natalia Isayev – might be a pseudonym – her group appeared at the safe house and shot dead our general just as he fired at Roach –”

 

“Roach! Ghost, what happened to Sanderson?” MacTavish cried, his brow furrowed with worry.

 

“He’s alive, lost a lot of blood, but you know how bloody stubborn he is about dyin’,” Ghost smiled slightly to himself underneath the balaclava.

 

“You still have the intel on Makarov?” Price interrupted.

 

Ghost patted his jacket. “Roach did fine work out there… but I reckon we keep this private from our new friends.”

 

“Good lad, that Roach,” Price commented. “And good foresight, Ghost, wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

 

“C’mon, let’s head back to the helo and I’ll explain everythin’,” Ghost offered as they turned back to the flares that shimmered on the horizon like exploding stars.

 

***

 

“I’m t-tell-telling you, d-don’t know what you’re bloody on ab-about,” Roach’s strained voice carried on the wind as the task force entered the vicinity of the encampment.

 

“We know you retrieved valuable intel, don’t play with us,” Isayev was towering over Roach, a pistol brandished in her outstretched hand.

 

 _Fuck! Knew this would happen._ Ghost charged forward, Price and MacTavish flanked him.

 

“I leave for all of ten minutes, and you’ve proceeded to intimidate my battle-rattled sergeant. Perhaps you’d do better speaking with us?” Ghost was loud but forced himself to maintain a relatively calm tone.

 

Isayev straightened herself, eyed her own soldiers before sizing up the new arrivals, “I see you found your comrades.”

 

“Aye,” Ghost remarked, his hand hovered discretely over his holstered sidearm. “Meet the field commanders of Task Force 141… Captain Price and Captain MacTavish,” he indicated. Isayev’s men slowly encircled the remaining task force.

 

“Pleasure,” Isayev returned dryly. She pointed the gun’s business end towards the task force.

 

“Wish I could say the same,” Price offered, clutching his rifle. Ghost sensed the man’s rage in parallel with his own.

 

“I know you have Makarov’s playbook,” She motioned her pistol on Ghost. “How convenient that Makarov’s computers were wiped clean when we arrived to the safe house, only to find you tailing it to Shepherd.”

 

“So why not just kill us right then and there, if you reckon we have somethin’ of value?” Ghost gritted his teeth. They were severely outnumbered, four to about twelve, and probably much slimmer on ammunitions. They had entered a trap but perhaps talking this over could diffuse the situation. Their lives were more important than the intel, when it came down to it, but he had to try and protect their one remaining ace in the hole. 

 

“To make Task Force 141 an offer: hand over the intel, serve us, and we help clear your names.”

 

“Think we can manage that ourselves, thank you very much,” MacTavish barked.

 

“’Sides, how we to trust you given your ‘persuasion?’” Price’s eyes narrowed into slits.

 

“You will find that the U.N. will not take kindly to branded traitors… we’ve been listening in on their communications. You’re wanted men. Who else can protect you?” She was calm, having the upper hand worked to her advantage. “Or fight your own battles, what do I care? But you must give us the files.”

 

Ghost scanned the faces of MacTavish and Price in his peripheral vision. The three of them had survived deep shit on their mission to eliminate Makarov but they had never been outcasts on the run. At least Ghost had dealt with betrayal before. His commanding officer Major Vernon sabotaged a routine mission to take down a Mexican cartel, resulting in Ghost’s capture, torture, and subsequent brainwashing at the hands of drug lord Manuel Roba. It had taken years for him to shirk the psychological madness and pain.

 

And Price had been captured and sentenced to years of imprisonment in a rotting gulag. MacTavish had narrowly escaped with his life after killing Zakhaev. These men were tough as nails; he saw it written in the grim determination of their expressions. It was Roach that Ghost was worried about, pain etched in the lines creasing his forehead, his discomfort visible as the bright flares placed around the helicopter.

 

“Well, hesitate much longer and I think the wounded one may succumb to his injuries…” Isayev mocked as she pointed her pistol at Roach’s skull. “Poor thing.”

 

“Enough!” Ghost bellowed, causing some of Isayev’s men to step forward with rifles and pistols at the ready.

 

“Ghost,” MacTavish was quiet and he placed a broad hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. “I got this,” he said as he looked at Price for affirmation. Price nodded grimly.

 

“Alright, we can offer up the intel and we’ll cooperate in pursuit of Makarov, under one condition. We both want him dead, that much is certain. No use to us to fight one another about it,” MacTavish said, slowly lowering his weapon.

 

“We’ve got the right-hand of Shepherd after us,” MacTavish continued. “Help us eliminate him and we’ve no problem handing over the intel.”

 

Isayev maintained her stance, the barrel of her gun lining up with Roach’s head. She looked at Anatoli for a moment.

 

“ _Pft_. I’ve seen dogs trained better than Shadow Company thugs,” Anatoli spat, arms crossed.

 

“Fine,” Isayev consented. “We have a deal, but first show us what you have on Makarov.”

 

Ghost thought MacTavish handled the situation well enough, given their options, although he was hardly thrilled with the prospect of being subordinate to the Russian bitch. He noted the slits of Price’s eyes. _I’m sure Price is already imaginin’ ways of getting ‘round her authority._ He suppressed a bleak smile despite his mask that already concealed his expression.

 

Ghost unzipped a pocket and offered the DSM. “As far as we know, it’s all here,” he said quietly.

 

“Good,” she stepped forward, holstered his pistol, and plucked the DSM from Ghost’s grasp. “Not wise for us all to bunker down together, with Shepherd’s men and Makarov abreast of the situation. We will discard the army helicopter far from here and return in forty-eight hours. Should give us time to decipher the intel.”

 

She turned to her men, “Alkaev, Orlov, bring them rations for two days and medical supplies.” Two men boarded the copter and returned with US Army supply backpacks, handed them to the task force. “See, I am reasonable.”

 

“What about ammo?” Price asked.

 

“I’m sure you have someone supplying that to you soon enough,” Isayev commented. “I assume you had some help getting here, after all. Just keep in mind, I will have a larger force with me when I return. Do not do anything you would regret,” she turned on her heel and returned to the copter.

 

Ghost ran up to Roach as the Russians dispersed, “Let’s get you inside that monastery and I’ll tell you everythin’.”

 

***

 

Price examined Roach’s wound, the young man lying on top of a stone slab covered by a thin blanket, inside an ancient Christian monastery in the Armenian wilderness. They were joined by Ghost inside a small room probably used for prayer in the tenth or eleventh century. Now it was an impromptu medical bay lit with an oil lamp. MacTavish had retired for the evening some minutes before, exhaustion setting in now that the task force had reached the relative safety of the hideout.

 

Price had explained that, a number of years ago, he purchased the property under a pseudonym and officially listed the site as undergoing renovations for future use as a bed and breakfast for the elite. Unofficially, Price had bribed Armenian officials through private contacts and had stocked the building with enough supplies to abscond from the world for a few days. A few changes of clothing, an assortment of combat gear, rations, a few cots and blankets for sleeping, pain killers, medical gauze and antiseptic; hell, Ghost had even found an old porno mag from 1999 stashed under a box of MREs.

 

“Looks like they did a decent enough job suppressing blood loss,” Price muttered, dabbing the wound with a cotton ball drenched in antibacterial fluid. Roach’s abdomen quivered slightly at the sting. “Good on them giving us extra supplies, this should be cleaned again in the morning,” Price handed Roach a canteen and an antibiotic. “Drink plenty of that,” he added.

 

“Still, you’re gonna have to take it easy for a while,” Price continued as he reached for fresh gauze and tape. The Kevlar that lined the Task Force 141 issue jackets had slowed the entry of the point-blank shot, leaving Roach with no exit wound. Price had expertly retrieved the bullet from the shallow wound and now applied the fresh dressings after ensuring the wound was clean.

 

“Fuck, I can’t believe that asshat shot me,” Roach groaned after downing the pill. Ghost had informed Roach of Shepherd’s actions as he and MacTavish carried the wounded soldier to the monastery.

 

Ghost had removed his balaclava after retiring inside, unconcerned with maintaining his anonymity among his men. His mouth twitched upward ever so slightly around his cigarette at Roach’s comment. He was hardly a chain smoker but it had a way of easing his tensions when the shit hit the fan. Although they had been coerced into cooperating with a potentially hostile group they did not entirely trust, Ghost was relieved that they had survived the ordeal, and that Makarov’s whereabouts would soon come to light. He focused on that and the prospect of Roach’s full recovery. The nicotine was nice, too; it certainly helped with the rage that simmered whenever he thought of Shepherd.  At least Roach was handling it well, all things considered.

 

“Recommend you two join Soap and get some rest,” Price grunted as he secured Roach’s dressing. MacTavish’s uneasy snores could be heard from an adjacent room. “Been a hell of a day. I’ll take the first watch.”

 

“You get some shut eye, I’m too wired to sleep,” Ghost offered truthfully.

 

“Well then, Sanderson, you need help getting to a cot?” Price asked.

 

Roach hesitated a moment, glanced at Ghost and then Price, “I’ll be in soon, I just need a few minutes to… you know, meditate. Ghost can help me out should I need it.”

 

“Right then,” He eyed Ghost and Roach for a moment. “We’ll switch in a couple hours,” he added to Ghost as he departed for the sleeping area.

 

Ghost and Roach stood in silence for moment, Roach seated on the blanket-covered slab, looking at Ghost expectantly.

 

“I owe you my life,” he whispered as Ghost approached him.

 

“Just doin’ my job, lookin’ out for my best sergeant… ‘sides, even I grudgingly admit we’d both be six-feet under if not for that Isayev woman.”

 

Roach laughed weakly and winced as result. “Well, could be worse. Shepherd could have burned us alive with his disgusting cigar, or something.”

 

“Hah,” Ghost laughed briskly at the mental image, as disturbing as it was. “I’m glad you pulled through, Sanderson.”

 

Roach glanced up at him with a small grin, a slight mischievous twinkle in his still bloodshot eyes, “We still on a call sign and last name basis, Lieutenant?”

 

“You really gonna give me shit about that, considerin’ the circumstances?” Ghost wanted to reach out and hold Roach, but the thought made him uncomfortable given the close proximity of the sleeping Price and MacTavish. His actions would be perceived as inappropriate, given the rank between him and Roach, and a sense of guilt crept over his conscious as he imagined having to explain to MacTavish, a man who held him with the utmost trust and confidence, that he was cavorting with a subordinate.

 

“Yeah… I get it. Just glad you’re here, you know?” Roach replied sheepishly, his eyes glancing away from Ghost’s face to study the crumbling walls. As he examined Roach’s forlorn profile, it was clear to Ghost that his sergeant had been longing for him, and he slowly admitted to himself that part of him also pined for the bond he had previously experienced with Roach. Hell, he nearly lost the man today on more than one occasion... 

 

“Fuck it, Gary, I’m glad you’re here, too,” Ghost reached out, abandoning reason, and roughly collected Roach’s chin in a gloved hand, pulled Roach’s gaze back on the lieutenant. With his other hand, he stroked Roach’s cheek, moving his fingers upward into the younger man’s cropped, sandy-brown hair. Roach closed his eyes at the touch and Ghost could sense his tension dissipating with the contact. 

 

“Damn this wound,” Roach moaned quietly. “Not much I can do in this pain…” He opened his eyes. Ghost had leaned in towards Roach without realizing, their faces close. Roach’s lips grazed the corner of Ghost’s mouth, and Ghost returned the act by tenderly planting his lips on Roach’s.

 

“Never worry… I’m serious, you ought to focus on your health,” Ghost murmured as he pulled away. “You should get some sleep, here, I’ll walk you over…” He eased Roach off the slab, allowing him to cling to his shoulders and abdomen for support. He walked Roach over to the sleeping quarters and placed him in a cot.

 

Ghost lit himself another cigarette out in the dank foyer of the monastery, using the oil lamp for light. He leaned up against the wall, inhaled the warm smoke, felt the solid weight of a pistol in his hand. He usually took solace in a good smoke and a firearm, but he realized now that whatever he was experiencing with Roach was a different kind of pleasure and comfort. It filled him with a sense of contentment he did not recall having felt in recent memory. It had made the last twenty-four hours actually worth living through.

 

The events of the previous day reeled through his mind. Him and Roach, naked and vulnerable in the shower room on base, the mutual pleasure and release… working like hell to breach the estate, the disappointment of not locating Makarov, of losing good men in combat… their desperate flee from the safe house, Ghost dragging Roach to the LZ not knowing if they would make it, Shepherd’s arrival a momentary elation, gunshots, blood, chaos –

 

Footsteps echoed in the stony hall and Price’s silhouette manifested from the dark. Ghost, deep in thought, had experienced the two hours in the course of what felt like fifteen minutes.

 

“My watch,” Price murmured.

 

“Thanks, reckon I could use the sleep,” Ghost yawned and started down the hall.

 

“So Sanderson’s a bloody ponce, is he?”

 

Ghost paused at that. _Had I heard him correctly?_

“I saw enough,” Price grunted. “Man up, Riley. This mission’s got more at stake than your dick. Focus that energy on killin’ Makarov, eh? Not on seducing some sexually ambiguous boy toy.”

 

“Y-you saw wrong, sir,” Ghost stammered, feeling a fool. For fuck’s sake, he knew it was wrong to feel what he felt with Roach. And it was more than it being uncharted territory for Ghost – he was disrupting chain of command by acting on his emotions.

 

“I thought so,” Price said quietly. “Get some sleep.” 

 

Ghost disappeared without another word.  


	3. Resistence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Roach deals with healing and trying to understand Ghost, Nikolai arrives at the task force safe house, leaving little time for Ghost and Roach to be alone and discuss their relationship. When the moment finally presents itself, Roach encounters the lieutenant's dark side and discovers more about Ghost's unfortunate past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Thank goodness for three day weekends. This chapter is admittedly darker than the others and includes a scene of attempted sexual assault– no nudity – but you’ve been warned. There’s also another description of mild sexual assault in this chapter, but nothing unfamiliar if you’ve previously read the comic “Modern Warfare 2: Ghost.”
> 
> Thanks to my readers and followers! I hope I’m doing justice to this epic pairing. The fact that this game is like SIX YEARS old and people are still following/reading/writing the fanfic is a testament to the epic, star-crossed romance between Ghost and Roach in MW2, haha.

Roach slept poorly that night. Between MacTavish’s abrupt snores, the aching wound in his abdomen, and the vision of General Shepherd’s cold stare as he held a gleaming silver magnum, the Task Force 141 sergeant had experienced far more restful evenings.

 

Roach laid with his back down on the cot, struggling for inner calm. He consciously drowned out the sounds of explosions, gunfire, and whirling helicopter blades and imagined a voice, working class yet dignified and confident, calling out to him, letting him know that he had to keep going, that he was still alive. He called upon his memories to will away the recollections of the chaotic suicide mission that was the breaching of Makarov’s safe house, forced the images of debris and blood from his mind, choosing instead to conjure up strong, blue eyes; a crooked smirk wrapped around a cigarette; a broad and powerful body pulling him in close. In spite of the pain and trauma associated with the betrayal and the less than ideal situation the task force now found themselves in, Roach focused on his silver lining – Simon “Ghost” Riley.

 

Not that thinking of the man helped him fall asleep any faster than the thoughts of blood and near-death experience. Even with his tender, fresh wound and his aching sore muscles from the physical exertion of the past day, Roach could still discern the faint flip in his stomach associated with nervous anxiety, the kind that bubbled up when one was overwhelmed with life’s unexpected excitement. Only this was the sort of excitement that Roach was actually eager for… the anticipation of knowing someone, liking them, and discovering that physical attraction was just the tip of the iceberg. He and Ghost were only just beginning to understand what it was _exactly_ that they felt for one another. And it invigorated him. Roach imagined the ways in which their mutual desire for each other would grow, transforming into something neither of them realized they had previously lacked in their lives. He was caught up in fantasizing, imagined the feel of Simon’s lips pressing into his own, the man’s salacious tongue penetrating his mouth, prying him open and forcibly sucking away at his lips and tongue. The images flashed through his mind as he recalled Ghost’s scent from earlier that evening – hints of musky sweat, gunpowder residue, dirt, cigarette smoke – all the things Roach was himself accustomed with in the line of duty that he found comforting, and envisioned Ghost’s hands working down from his bare chest to undo his pants, grabbing at his erection –

 

Roach detected a rustling of thin sheets from Price who moved in the cot opposite him. Roach steadied his breathing – the fantasy had sped up his heartbeat. The imagery had momentarily transported him from reality, and as the dull pain shot back to his wounded side, he shifted his weight in the cot to be more comfortable. In the dim light provided by the lantern that glowed down the monastery’s hall, Roach saw Price stand up and walk out of the sleeping quarters. _Must be time for his watch._

He heard Price’s footsteps echo down the hall followed by the murmuring of hushed voices. A brief pause, another exchange of whispers, and more footsteps sounded toward the direction of the sleeping quarters until Ghost’s towering silhouette obscured the dim hallway lighting, his six-foot-two frame slouching to enter the small threshold. MacTavish was snoring, sound asleep, and Roach was tempted to do something to get Ghost’s attention, but he hesitated knowing that it would seem childish and needy. _Fuck, who am I kidding? ‘Course I’m needy, how many times did I nearly die today? Still, don’t want to tax Simon with my insecurities… besides, he’s tired, needs his rest, and so do I…_

Roach heard Ghost’s bulking frame settle into a creaking cot, he rustled for a few seconds in the sheet and was silent. Roach willed his mind to focus on the black, quiet expanse of his eyelids… but before long the vignettes once again infiltrated his mind’s eye. He momentarily felt as if he was falling…

 

_“Good, that’s one less loose end,” General Shepherd’s eyes narrowed, a silver magnum pointed at Roach’s abdomen._

_BAAAANG!_

_Gary was on the ground, unable to move. He blinked, trying to focus on shadowy movement._

_A small, feminine figure stood over him, talking. A shining silver ring inside a black box was clutched in her hand, a small diamond sparkling in the light from the incandescent fireworks that blossomed in the sky._

_“Happy New Year’s! Happy 2007!” A crowd of voices shouted as the colorful explosions dazzled Gary. The figure stepped closer, sharpened into view. He was standing now and looking into hazel eyes in front of him._

_“Oh Gary, I am really, truly sorry about this,” her brow furrowed as she tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “But I can’t – I am so sorry, but I can’t marry you. I’m just too young, and we’ve never been with anyone else, I mean, since we were sixteen, Gary! I just think we should see other people now that we’re in uni, you know?”_

_Before he could reply, just as tears began to brim his eyes, Gary was drifting, away from the spectacle, away from the first person he had ever loved –_

_“Man, you gonna hit some of this?”_

_Gary was lounging on the floor of a dingy flat. His mate tossed him a fat joint. Gary lit it up, casually, and let the drug work on him. He felt calm, confident… kind of horny._

_“Hey Alex, those girls coming over from that load of crap psychology class?” Gary asked between drags, racked a hand through his shaggy hair._

_“Nah, they bailed. Said they wanted to study,” Alex stated, inhaling marijuana from a bong._

_“Fuck man, I thought that Megan chick was into me,” Gary moaned._

_Alex shoved aside his bong and was beside Gary in moments. “So? I bet she’s not the only one into you…” Alex wrapped an arm around Gary’s shoulder, pressing the side of his body into his. Gary resisted for a few seconds, laughed nervously, thinking the drug had warped his friend’s mind, but found himself give in as Alex’s hand moved to inch forward until it reached under Gary’s waistline, infiltrated his boxers, wrapped around his manhood… fuck, it actually felt good…_

_Gary opened his eyes, looked in Simon’s shaded gaze, hard to interpret, and the other man backed away. A Russian woman was holding a gun at Gary’s head as he lay on the floor, unable to move. Simon walked to stand beside her, dressed in combat fatigues._

_The woman slowly placed the barrel of her pistol into Gary’s mouth, who was still unable to move, fight, or resist in any capacity. He felt paralyzed, entirely at the whims of the female solider. He felt the cold tip of the business end press against his tongue, the metallic tang overwhelming his mouth as she forced the metal shaft into Gary. He looked up at Simon, eyes pleading, but the man did not acknowledge him, as if Gary was not even there nor being penetrated against his will in front of his lieutenant’s eyes. Rather, Simon was no longer wearing his balaclava, his face encroaching upon the woman, who did not resist as Simon’s lips met hers. She forced the gun deeper into Gary’s throat as their kissing grew into a passionate fervor of lashing tongues and hair pulling –_

“Sanderson?” A Scottish accent echoed in the chamber.

 

“Wha - ?” Roach startled, awake, but groggy, confused, head throbbing from restless sleep. The thin sheet clung to his body with sticky sweat. Somehow, he had managed to practically swaddle himself on the cot. He shifted, pain shooting up his side, to unravel himself.

 

“You alright? Looks like you might ‘ave been dreamin’, whatever it was, you didn’t seem to particularly care for it,” MacTavish expressed earnestly.

 

“Ye – Yeah, think so,” Roach replied weakly as a flood of images surfaced almost all at once. It was difficult to separate his actual _tired thinking_ from the full-on dreams _– Well, with the exception of the part with the women and the gun rape… and Simon. That definitely was a dream_. _Fuck’s sake, where do I come up with this shit?_

“Thanks,” Roach mumbled to his captain, physical shaking his head to shirk the dreams from his mind.

 

“No problem, mate. “Any case, Price says we ought to clean up your wound again. C’mon, I’ll walk you over?” MacTavish offered.

Roach nodded, swung his feet over the edge of the cot. He winced, the pain stronger than last night. _Hope Price has plenty of those pain meds…_ Roach blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the window-less chamber. All of the other cots were empty.

 

MacTavish braced Roach as he stood up and walked a few paces. After a few strides, Roach was able to walk on his own, albeit slowly, as they walked to the impromptu medical station. He was managing better than yesterday; just mostly weakened from lack of sustenance.  

 

“Don’t think I got ‘round to tellin’ you last night,” MacTavish stated as they were halfway to their destination. “But I’m damn proud of you. Riley told us, Price and I, about the safe house op. He seemed impressed with the efficiency of your breaching and how you handled the assault –”

 

Roach sighed, not feeling deserving of the words, “You should be praising Lieutenant Riley. He’s the reason I’m still here to begin with.”

 

“Sanderson, let me finish, will you?” MacTavish chided with a slight chuckle. “I remember, what you told me before the op – hadn’t seen you so nervous since you tested to make the one-four-one – you even had a hard time tryin’ to understand what made Riley select you for the mission. Look Sanderson, he’s always trusted your abilities, just as _I_ have. You certainly proved yourself yesterday. Don’t doubt it for a minute.”

 

“He really said that, did he?” Roach queried, suppressing a smile.

 

“Aye, ‘course he did! Said you acted with valor to succeed at the mission, demonstrated concern for your men,” MacTavish nodded.

 

“We did have a talk, before the op,” Roach admitted, kept his tone neutral. “It was apparent that I read into his behavior incorrectly… that I had taken his reprimands too personally.”

 

“As I suspected,” MacTavish said as they walked into the small chamber with the blanket-clad stone slab. “In any case, we’re all glad you’re safe, all things considerin’.”

 

Price was preparing materials to clean Roach’s wound, the unrested solider painfully aware of Ghost’s absence. Roach was eager to see him, especially after the bizarre dream. MacTavish assisted Roach as they approached the slab, helped him sit down on the stone.

 

“Sleep alright?” Price asked as Roach settled into position.

 

“Not really… had rather odd dreams, to be honest,” Roach confessed, looked up at Price, the gaze of the field captain fixated on the medical supplies in his hands.

 

“Prob’ly the meds, in addition to everything that’s happened…” Price remarked. “Trauma enhanced by opiate, not always a pleasant concoction.”

 

“I’ll affirm that. Pain seems to be worse this morning though,” Roach replied, glancing at Price whose gaze still avoided his own.

 

“I’ll give you a pill after we’ve finished here, along with another antibiotic, but do eat something with it,” Price said as he unraveled a fresh set of dressings.

 

“Where’s our resident apparition this morning?” Roach asked with an emergent smirk, thinking himself clever. MacTavish snorted good-naturedly.

 

“Out. Doing recon,” Price said.

 

“Shouldn’t this place be safe?” Roach prodded.

 

“’Course its safe,” Price grunted. “But one should never be too careful. Think I speak for us all when I say, I don’t bloody trust Isayev… and with Makarov _and_ Shepherd’s men after us, who’s to say she wouldn’t sell us out, if it worked to her advantage?” Price started to undo the old bandages on Roach’s wound, his brow furrowed in apparent concentration.

 

“That’s my Captain,” MacTavish stood with his arms crossed, standing beside Roach and Price by the slab. “The fact we even have this place to begin with…” Respect shinned in MacTavish’s eyes.

 

“Never did trust Shepherd, Soap. And we can’t get too comfortable here. They’ll track us eventually,” Price finished removing the last of the old, dark red dressings. He scrutinized the gunshot wound and dipped a cotton ball in antiseptic, “Healing well enough,” He murmured to Roach, whose stomach quivered at the string.  

 

“You ever trust anyone, Price?” MacTavish laughed half-heartedly, his face a serious contrast.

 

“I’ve trusted you lot,” he looked at MacTavish, square in the eye, nodded and turned to acknowledge Roach with the same sincerity – the first time since Roach had entered the room. “That’s why I expect us all to focus _,_ put aside personal wants and desires, and _bloody well focus_.”

 

Roach was taken aback by Price’s words and the hard looked he offered before the field captain returned his attention back to the wound. MacTavish looked momentarily at Price and Roach with a mix of mild curiosity and surprise.

 

“Aye, that stands to reason…” MacTavish spoke, exchanged a questioning look with Roach, who uneasily turned his attention to the purplish-red wound on his abdomen. “Think the only thing we all want _and_ desire right ‘bout now is Makarov dead.”

 

Price nodded as he prepared the new dressings and adhesive for Roach’s wound, “I expect as much.”

 

Roach looked at Price for further explanation, attempting to read the old soldier’s expression for answer, but it revealed nothing. _Why did he look at me, almost to imply I wasn’t serious about completing the mission – about killing Mak?_

Roach’s lips parted, but his voice hesitated. He was in pain, sleep deprived, head throbbing, and not up to the task of deciphering Price’s riddle. The last thing he wanted was passive-aggressive admonishment. Against better judgement, Roach forced his vocal cords to action.

 

“With respect, sir, do you mean to tell me I’m distracted? Perhaps you think it’s the reason Shepherd shot me, is that I wasn’t _focused_ enough? That I could have prevented it had I been more alert?” Roach made a conscious effort to keep his voice steady, calm, but his tone betrayed himself, as an infusion of annoyance clung to the words, “I was nearly unconscious and deafened when Lieutenant Riley hauled me to the LZ –”

 

“Sanderson,” It was MacTavish who interrupted, placed a hand gingerly on Roach’s shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand Price, he’s just concerned for us, is all he means by it.”

 

“No, Soap, Roach is right – no sense beating ‘round the bush,” Price sighed, finished patching Roach’s wound. “Look, Sanderson, you lot are like sons to me, but you should know, the one-four-one isn’t a damn boarding school, you catch my meaning?”

 

“Price, what exactly are you implying here?” MacTavish asked, his eyebrows raised in perplexity.

 

Roach was about to stammer something when Price replied, “He knows what I’m talkin’ about,” with a cool, neutral tone as he returned unused medical supplies in a pouch. Roach felt hot and uncomfortable as the eyes of both captains fell upon him.

 

Beaded sweat prickled at Roach’s brow. _Fuck, he suspects – or knows – about me and Simon._

“I’m not about to jeopardize a mission,” Roach managed, attempted a convincing, respectful tone.

 

“If you’ll forgive me, I’m still not followin’,” MacTavish stood, crossing his arms, looked at Price. “Why would Roach put a mission at risk?”

 

 “We’re fighting a war here, we’ve no external military support; it’s just too risky to screw up the chain o’ command with two of our men in the sack together. Your sergeant and lieutenant here have grown intimate,” Price’s voice was quiet but stern as he fished an opioid and antibiotic from a small pill case. An uneasy silence fell across the stone room.

 

“I’ve said my piece,” Price concluded, handed Roach the pills. “Soap, I’ll be inspectin’ and cleanin’ the weaponry, and divvying up what ammo we’ve got.” He turned on his heel and departed.

 

MacTavish looked at Roach, his eyes narrowed. Roach was dumbfounded by Price’s words, but also vaguely astonished that the experienced solider had the perception to notice the burgeoning relationship between him and Ghost. _Then again, perhaps we ought to have been more discrete_.

 

Price had clearly observed their brief intimate exchange in the exact same room last night, and while Roach had thought they were alone at the time, it would have only taken Price several seconds of lingering in the hallway – to tie a bootlace, rummage through his supplies, or have a smoke – to overhear their conversation or to see their embrace as their lips met one another’s.

 

“You’re not denying it,” MacTavish stated, sighing as the creasing around his eyes dissipated.

 

Roach wanted to stare at the pills in his hand, but consciously turned his gaze on his captain, “I’m not, sir.”

 

“It’s 2016 – the Ministry of Defense hasn’t discriminated against sexual orientation since 2000. Price is of a different generation. Don’t let it get to you. That said, given the chain of command, it does complicate somewhat…” MacTavish said, gaze transfixed on the wall behind Roach.

 

“Given your close proximity, I suppose I no longer have to concern myself with the quality of the _rapport_ between my only surviving sergeant and lieutenant,” MacTavish added, slowly turning his attention back to Roach, who was less embarrassed by Price’s words and more disappointed at himself for betraying his captain’s trust.

 

“Don’t… look, it’s not Lieutenant Riley’s fault. I may have – I was the one who initiated the contact. Before the op on Makarov’s safe house,” Roach confessed, as it seemed the best course of action.

 

“Price is right, Sanderson. We do need to focus, our lives are on the line here… But, with Shepherd KIA, god rest his soul,” MacTavish spat sarcastically, a grin lighting his features as if struck by a sudden epiphany, “And given the recent disavowal of the task force on the record, to hell with bloody protocol. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no breach in the chain of command if it’s not officially recognized by military institution. Carry on,” MacTavish concluded, giving Roach a light pat on the shoulder.

 

Roach exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes. He was actually elated, considering the circumstances, but still felt himself a sneak for his secrecy. “Sir, I do appreciate your support… but, I owe you an apology. I behaved selfishly and if the circumstances were otherwise, I’d expect a full dismissal.”

 

“Aye, but the circumstances _aren’t_ otherwise,” MacTavish said with a shrug, his tone neutral, a mix of pain and sympathy lining his faced.

 

Even Roach felt mixed emotions about the outcome. Sure, he could maintain his relationship – but at what cost? Most of the task force was KIA and the only survivors were currently on the run from the US Army and unwillingly in the service of an inscrutable Anti-Inner Circle movement, an organization perhaps no less radical than the cause it fought against. The only reason he could stay involved with Simon was because the task force was no longer officially recognized. It was bizarre, the entire turn of events, but at the very least, Roach was comforted knowing he would not face prosecution and that MacTavish offered his blessing. _Bollocks, whatever Price thinks of me._

 

 “I’ll inform Price of my decision,” MacTavish added. “He won’t be happy with my leniency, I expect, but he’ll respect that I’ve served and led the one-four-one longer than he has. He’ll come ‘round… you and Riley, just keep things discrete, eh? We don’t want to give the old man a bloody heart attack,” MacTavish finished with a raucous laugh.  

 

“Sir, it’s more than I deserve,” Roach offered. _I’m a proper shitbag. A damn lucky shitbag._  

 

“We all deserve a little break right about now… c’mon, let’s get you some chow.”

 

…

 

Roach, with the assistance of MacTavish, seated himself in large room in the back of the ancient monastery. The makeshift dining area was sparsely furnished: a rickety old folding card table with four plastic chairs, boxes filled with MREs, an oil lamp, cases of reserve oil, and a cast iron wood stove that could supply heat in colder months and a cooking range. MacTavish had fished an MRE for Roach – classic spaghetti and meatballs – that Roach had decided to eat at room temperature. It tasted decent enough, as he took his time chewing his food, unsure what he would be capable of doing after he finished his meal. _Not much in this condition._

MacTavish had joined Price several minutes ago to assist the older captain with weapon cleaning – _And, probably to tell Price what he thought about the ‘breach’ in the chain of command. Not exactly a conversation I wanted to hear…_

Roach slurped down the last mouthful of spaghetti, wondering what Ghost was up to, when he heard commotion from the front of the monastery. The wooden door slamming, boots falling across damp stone, voices booming down the narrow corridor.

 

“Price set himself up pretty good here, yah?” Roach recognized the distinct voice of Nikolai, the pilot friend of Price who had extracted the one-four-one from Rio _. Damn good pilot at that, too_. Roach vividly recalled his particularly desperate jump from the rooftops of the favela to the rope ladder dangling from Nikolai’s copter when he was on the run from hostiles, knowing full well he would not have made the leap of faith if Nikolai was any less of an airman.

 

“It’s bleedin’ Buckingham Palace compared to the gulag we extracted him out of,” Ghost barked with a laugh.

 

Roach heard more footsteps enter the hallway, Price and MacTavish. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood abruptly – the pain med had worked its magic – eager to greet the arrivals. It had only been several hours since he had last seen Ghost yet it felt agonizingly long since their lips had met and Simon’s hand had caressed his cheek, his hair. _Shit, perhaps Price was right about me losing focus._

Roach struggled to remember the last time he had felt simultaneously nervous, excited, and comforted by the mere thought of someone else’s presence. After everything they had endured in the last forty-eight hours – from their reciprocal masturbation to the attack on Makarov’s estate and surviving Shepherd’s betrayal – he was more drawn to the man more than ever. _But I gotta keep my cool about this, we’re still in a world of shit, on most accounts._

Roach worked his way slowly to the hall entrance, saw the backs of Price and MacTavish greeting Ghost and Nikolai in the small foyer. He limped slightly as he moved forward, but otherwise felt good – the sight of Ghost perhaps another form of treatment.

 

MacTavish turned around abruptly, “Oi! You getting ‘round okay on your own?”

 

“I got this,” Roach shouted to the captain from the opposite end. He continued walking, thinking about when he and Ghost would have another opportunity alone rather than the ensuing conversation. MacTavish clasped his shoulder as he joined the group.

 

“Nikolai, you remember Roach?” MacTavish asked the broad Russian.

 

“Da, how could I forget – I’ve seen many close calls in my line of work, but nothing quite like Rio! Good to see you again, comrade,” Nikolai greeted him.

 

“Thanks, man, we’ve certainly less shit to worry about with you around,” Roach offered a sincere handshake, felt the Russian’s firm grip and calloused hand. Nikolai was dependable, a good ally, and while Roach felt more than a little awkward around Price, he was genuinely grateful for the man’s ability to make valuable and trustworthy connections.

 

“I heard you took a bullet courtesy of that bastard American general,” Nikolai stated, looking impressed as he released the handshake.

 

“That I did,” Roach gingerly slid the hemline of his tank top upward, revealed his covered wound to the audience.

 

“Sanderson,” Ghost offered a curt nod. “Your condition has improved?”

 

“Yeah, Price here’s done wonders,” Roach nodded to Ghost, who was donned in his usual fatigues paired with the skull balaclava and dark sunglasses, rendering the man unreadable.

 

“That’s the opiate talking, lad,” Price chucked dryly – perhaps more dry than his usual tone. “Riley, Nikolai – you hungry? Been a long day, we’ve MREs in the back.”

 

“Thank you, Price,” Nikolai lifted two oversized duffle bags off the floor. “I also bring supplies with me, more ammo, instant coffee, toiletries… good vodka.”

 

“Good, spot any sign of trouble on your way over here?” Price asked as the group of men lugged down the passageway.    

 

“Negative,” Ghost stated. “Did a sweep this mornin’ of the perimeter and met up with Nikolai roughly six klicks west of our hideout, no sign of activity in the area. I’ll do another sweep in a few hours.”

 

“ _I’ll_ do the sweep at dusk,” MacTavish intervened. “Did you even manage three hours o’ sleep last night? You rest… or you know, look after our wounded warrior.” MacTavish flashed Roach the briefest of knowing glances. “Price, you able to cover me out there?”

 

Price hesitated a fraction of a second, then turned his head towards MacTavish, “Always, Soap.”

 

…

 

“Isayev told us forty-eight hours. It’s already been a day. We should expect her company ‘round nightfall tomorrow,” MacTavish explained.

 

“That name mean anythin’ to you, Nikolai? Natalia Isayev?” Priced asked. “Calls herself commander of some rubbish Anti-Inner Circle Movement, still Ultranationalists, of course.”

 

“Ah, yes, that name I know. It’s said she might be a bastard of President Vorshevsky’s,” Nikolai stated.

 

“Interesting. Perhaps her ties to him are funding her operations,” Price mused.

 

“Good call, Price,” MacTavish nodded. “We’ll have to see about using that knowledge to our advantage somehow. Alright, we’ll contact you lot should we spot anything,” MacTavish brandished an old walkie-talkie provided by Nikolai’s supply run. “Obviously too risky to depend on our old task-force frequency.”

 

“You lads get some shut eye. Someone’s gotta keep watch, and we ought to station a man on the roof for better coverage. Work in shifts,” Price suggested. Within the dorms there was a passage with a narrow staircase that led to a small lavatory followed by another set of stairs that gave access to the steeped roof at the front of the monastery. MacTavish and Price turned towards the main entrance, weapons and ammo slung across their tactical vests.

 

Roach saw the two captains depart at the end of the hall, the bright, reddish glow from the setting sun engulfed their silhouettes as they passed through the threshold into the wilderness.

 

“You know what make watch better?” Nikolai rummaged through one of his large duffle bags and proffered three flasks. “It strong, but we just drink a little,” he chuckled.

 

“You two enjoy,” Ghost stood, already turning toward the monastery entrance where Price and MacTavish had recently departed. “I’ll keep a look out.”

 

Nikolai took a large swig from a flask, “Okay, but later you will try,” he winked at Roach.

 

“Riley,” Roach called. “You sure you don’t want one of us to be on watch with you?”

 

“Rest up, Sanderson, your body needs to heal,” Ghost replied as he marched his way to the dormitory, the smaller his figure in Roach’s line of sight, the stronger his loneliness felt. He knew he could hardly take it personally – a mission was a mission – but it seemed the recent near-death experiences had exacerbated Roach’s desires to seize the moments of opportunity. Perhaps he would go to bed soon and see Ghost later in the dorms, once Price and MacTavish returned from their sweep…

 

“He is right,” Nikolai extended a flask toward Roach. “Have a little, rest will come easy.”

 

Roach knew it was fool proof – he had always been a bit of a light-weight when it came to drinking, and it was more typical of him to feel sleepy rather than buzzed after drinking a single beer. Roach clasped the flask, knocked back a gulp of the fiery substance that burned his throat.

 

“Whoa,” Roach blinked, his eyes watering. “That’s strong, mate.”

 

Nikolai barked a laugh, “I told you. Take another swig and wait a few minutes.”

 

Roach did as instructed and Nikolai produced a deck of cards. His throat burned again momentarily but it was less intense this time. He felt a warm ember in the pit of his stomach, as if a furnace burned slowly from within. The Russian began teaching him to play a card game, but Roach was more or less just following his commands rather than comprehending the actual instructions, his mind dulled as the heat from within spread outward and reached his extremities. Nikolai appeared to be winning with a strong hand and growing stack of cards as Roach’s eyes began to droop, his own hand impossible to read through the slits of his vision.

 

“Let’s get you to the dormitory, yah?” A strong voice chuckled.

 

“I’m knackered,” Roach managed, vaguely recalling that he now had alcohol and opium in his system as Nikolai guided him to the sleeping quarters. He released the bulking frame of the Russian as he settled into the cot in the dark room, eye lids heavy with exhaustion.

 

…

 

Roach’s bladder throbbed as his eyes opened into darkness. _No weird dreams this time, thank god._ He had an aching piss to relieve but waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. He heard the voices of Nikolai and MacTavish in the dining hall, the glow of a lantern illuminating the hall.

 

Roach ascended the small, narrow staircase at the back of the sleeping quarters that led to the latrine. The toilet was essentially a simple, weathered dark hole in the middle of the room, carved out of the stone floor. Roach suspected the hole led down into the sediment, perhaps to a natural cavern that would eventually flush away the waste. Thankfully, the depth of the hole and a narrow window carved from the wall allowed enough breeze to keep away any stench.

 

Roach was buttoning his boxer shorts when he detected movement from the lower staircase, the scape of a heavy combat boot on weathered stone.

 

“Sanderson?” It was Ghost’s voice, sounding ragged and tired.

 

“I’m here,” Roach breathed, his stomach flipping with nerves. He heard the subtle murmuring of conversation from the dining room below through the stone, the quiet sound of insects singing through the night of the open window as a warm breeze tickled his face. Suddenly, Roach’s world felt safer, the ambiance of the evening soothing – and, finally, he had his moment alone with Simon.

 

Ghost’s boots crushed loose gravel upon the stone floor as he approached Roach. The slim light of the moon and stars shinning in through the narrow window revealed Ghost’s pale human face in the surrounding darkness. Roach stood, waited for Ghost to say or do something. The man had been noticeably distant throughout the day, although Roach had understandingly attributed his behavior to the gravity of their present situation. He thought about the conversation that occurred earlier with Price and wondered if the older captain had made similar comments to Ghost.

 

“Price knows… about us,” Roach said when Ghost failed to speak. “But MacTavish told him off, said it doesn’t matter now that the task force is disavowed.”

 

“Aye,” Ghost murmured, his arms wrapped roughly around the narrowest section of Roach’s waist, making contact with his still tender wound.

 

Roach responded with a wet hiss as pain coursed through his side. “Easy,” he managed a weak laugh, feeling the heat of the other man’s body through their layers of fabric. Roach placed his hands on Ghost’s lower back and began to needle his fingers into his spine. It felt good to have him close, to feel his flesh and bone. Roach sighed, letting himself melt into the other man’s contours.

 

“What?” Ghost responded with a dark chuckle, pulled Roach in tighter with the fabric of his tank top. At the same time Roach smelled vodka on Ghost’s heavy breath – before he could register the movement – Ghost grabbed and twisted Roach’s arms behind his back, turning him to face the stone wall, shoving Roach forward, until his chest made contact with the wall and the side of his face was crushed uncomfortably upon the stone. The wind knocked out of him, he struggled for air, to voice a protest –

 

“Aren’t you a bender?” Ghost grinded his pelvis against Roach’s rear, accompanied by the sound of rustling fabric as Ghost’s pants rubbed across Roach’s boxer shorts. Although he remained mostly clothed, Roach felt nothing short of violated as the other man pinned his body against the wall, dry humping his ass. The pain in his side intensified as the other man’s weight leaned against him, but was to be outdone by the despair Roach felt, realizing that Ghost was intoxicated.

 

“You’re acting like a proper wanker, you know that?” Roach hissed at the wall, feeling his skin scratch into the rough stone. “You’re drunk, you arse!”

 

“Don’t fuck with me, Sanderson,” Ghost breathed hot and quiet into his ear. “You’re the one who wanted to be fucked _by me,_ remember?” His grip tightened around Roach’s arms, which he also forced back against the wall. Roach felt fresh scrapes cut across his hands and arms but failed to register any physical pain, too confused and emotionally wounded by Ghost’s drunken display of aggression and power.  

 

“Price said something to you, about us, didn’t he?” Roach sputtered. “Find it damaging to your precious masculinity complex?”

 

Ghost barked a rough, forced laugh as he shoved Roach’s frame closer against the wall, “That your fancy education talkin’? ‘Masculinity complex’?” He mocked Roach’s word-choice with a faux posh accent.

 

“Bugger off, I dropped out of uni before I even got my degree –, ” Roach paused, recalling that Ghost was from a blue collar background, having overheard once that he was some type of apprentice before he enlisted.

 

_For fuck’s sake, Simon’s actually_ insecure… _about himself, about us._ Hell, he assumed Ghost likely had never experienced intercourse with a man before, yet alone emotional attachment. Now that their affair had essentially ‘gone public’ it was bound to cause mixed feelings in the closed-off, private man who self-selected the call sign Ghost as if to signify the intangible workings of his inner psyche. It was a damn delicate situation and Roach was severely underpowered in both strength and strategy. He had never seen Ghost so strongly under the influence before. Not that he felt pity for him; Roach was actually rather disgusted at his behavior. There was no point in trying to reason with a drunkard.

 

Ghost replied to Roach’s remark with another shove into the wall; he felt warm liquid trickle from his brow down his cheek. He could yell for help, the monastery was small enough that someone ought to hear him, but given Ghost’s impaired judgement it seemed unwise to cause a big scene and involve the others. _Alright, I gotta get his guard down, wait for the right moment._ Roach whimpered, allowing himself to show his vulnerability.

 

“Do… whatever it is that you want,” Roach panted. He sensed Ghost bristle, as if the man had expected something else entirely, felt the very _second_ Ghost’s firm grip slacked on his hands and his body released a fraction of the pressure he was exerting on Roach’s build –

 

Roach lifted his left leg, extending it back behind him and off to Ghost’s side, and swung it back forward, his foot finding impact with the backside of Ghost’s knee with all the strength and anger he could muster. It was enough force to topple Ghost to his knee, and while he collided with Roach on the way down, he was too inebriated to catch himself from falling to the ground. Roach landed another kick to Ghost’s side, just enough to ensure the other man would be too impaired to catch him, and jumped aside to freedom.

 

Ghost groaned slightly on the ground and started to dry-heave. Roach stood back and watched apprehensively from the stairway. After a few seconds, liquid gushed from Ghost’s mouth onto the floor.

 

“You ought to feel like shite,” Roach spat, rather feeling like it himself.

 

He heard boots from the above stairwell that led to the roof. Price entered the lavatory, looked at Roach at the opposite end of the room, “I heard commotion, you alright?”

 

Before Roach responded, Ghost retched a second time, with less substance and more heaving. Price looked in the direction of the noise and spotted Ghost on the floor, practically lying in his own vomit.

 

“Good lord, that you Riley?” He asked.

 

“Seems to be Riley had a tad too much fun,” Roach shrugged. “I was asleep when I heard him groaning, ran up from the dorms, which is probably what you heard…” He knew he did not have to protect Ghost. The man had just assaulted him – no other way about it – but with Price already on edge about Makarov and Isayev, he thought it best to deal with Ghost directly. 

 

“Let’s bring him down to a cot, shall we? He’s ‘bout to pass out,” Price suggested. Roach and Price hefted Ghost off the floor, each supporting him around a shoulder, walked him down to the dormitory. His feet dragged and the man failed to protest or even fully register the presence of Price and Roach. 

 

“I’ll fetch him some water, should he wake up. Is it Nikolai’s time for watch? Might I get him for you, sir?” Roach asked.

 

“I’ve about thirty more minutes, just remind him for me, would you? And if you see him beating the goat like this tosser, you’ve permission to slap some sense into him on my account,” Price remarked as he ascended the stairs and returned to the rooftop.

 

Roach turned to leave Ghost, hobbled to the dining area as he heard MacTavish’s and Nikolai’s boisterous laughter echoing down the hall. He did his best to compose himself; he was rightfully fuming at Ghost, but knew the best thing for him was to sober up as soon as possible. It would, at the least, make the duration of the evening more bearable.

 

“There a canteen filled with water?” Roach asked as he passed the threshold.

 

“Oi, Roach! Allow us to toast to your health!” MacTavish beamed, brandishing a flask in the air.

 

“Nah, just water, thanks,” Roach spotted a canteen among some tactical gear and picked it up. He momentarily contemplated asking MacTavish to attend to Ghost, but thought against it. _And let Ghost think I’m some kind of wimp? Convince him that his power display actually worked? Because it didn’t._

“Oh, Nikolai – Price says you’re to take over in thirty minutes, sound good?” Roach looked back before leaving down the hall.

 

“Dah, no problem. On second thought, water sounds good, my friend!” Nikolai flashed a smile, then offered a puzzled look. “You okay – you have blood on your head.”

 

Roach gingerly touched the area around his temple, felt the sticky wetness congealing around a scrape.

 

“Oh yeah, thanks for asking,” Roach quickly racked his brain. “Think I had a bug bite and scratched too hard in my sleep.”

 

“Night, Sanderson,” MacTavish called. Roach offered a wave and returned to the dormitory.

 

Ghost was snoring when Roach entered the room. He placed a canteen on the floor next to the cot, settled into his own bed, focusing on rest that evaded him. He heard Nikolai and MacTavish shuffle into the room sometime later, followed by Nikolai’s stomping boots on the stairs to the roof to take over for Price as MacTavish’s body creaked into a cot for sleep. Price was heard next, deftly descending the stairs with barely a sound, followed by the soft sigh of exhaustion as he settled in the last remaining makeshift bed. Still, sleep alluded Roach, even as he fought against the image of Simon forcing himself upon him, hearing his crude language and mockery, the stench of puke and piss as he carried the drunk down the stairs…

 

Roach’s eyelids flickered open into the dim room illuminated by soft gray that infiltrated the small gaps in the ancient masonry. Nikolai slept where Ghost had previously laid, and MacTavish snored gently in the same cot. Price’s bed was empty and Roach listened for signs of movement. He faintly heard the soft clicking of metal objects and figured Price was likely prepping ammunitions in the storeroom. And Ghost was most likely on the roof keeping watch, and as disappointed Price had been about him last night, Roach was certain that the old captain had refrained from any leniency this morning.

 

Figuring Ghost had now sobered up from sleep and digesting the alcohol, Roach determined he should confront him now rather than later. Most of the squad was still sleeping and since Roach needed this conversation, he much preferred to have it privately than with an audience. He spotted the canteen on the floor next to the cot, scooped it up, and quietly ascended the stairs to the roof. His wound twanged uncomfortably, but he decided on medicating later when he had time for chow. Crossing the threshold onto the roof, Roach was stunned by the natural beauty of the view. Even in the dim morning light, he saw the rolling, verdant hills and rocky outcroppings, breathtaking from the elevated perspective, the fresh air upon the wind invigorating.

 

In the center of the monastery’s roof was a small, cylindrical turret-shaped room with several open archways that faced outward in each direction. It reminded Roach of an open-air gazebo placed on top of the roof, only far more elegant and aged than any structure found in the modern age. It provided a near three-hundred-sixty degree view of the landscape while the arches and steeped roof provided enough covering for surveillance. It was in this structure that he saw a large silhouette crouched to the side of an opening of a stone archway, shoulders slumped as it stared into the horizon. Roach placed the canteen beside the silent figure.

 

“Drink. Its water,” Roach stated, crouching beside Ghost, his pale face shinning in the rising sun.

 

Ghost twisted the cap off, took a large swig; practically inhaled the water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he lowered the canteen. “I do feel like shite… I am an arse. And a wanker. I’m all of those bloody miserable things.”

 

“Is that your way of absolving your behavior, self-flagellation?” Roach asked.

 

No,” Ghost set the canteen aside, rubbed his eyes with his palms. “It’s not enough to excuse what I did… it’s been a while since I ‘self-medicated,’ and it got outta hand.” Ghost stopped rubbing his face; looked at Roach in the eye. “You didn’t deserve that.”

 

“I get it, there’s a lot of shit going on… on top of trying to sort out, well, what _we’ve_ felt. But you _are_ an arse on the bottle,” Roach said dryly. “It’s like you had something to prove.”

 

Ghost took another deep swig of water, set the canteen down, and returned his gaze out on the horizon. A long silence followed. “Get that from my lovely father, the drinkin’ and all that.”

 

“And where do you get the self-deprecation from, your mum?” Roach asked, more than a little sarcastic.

 

“Must be. She let my father walk all over her,” Ghost replied slowly. Admittedly, Roach had not anticipated Ghost’s honesty on the subject.

 

Roach nodded gently as it dawned on him how little he actually _knew_ about the man he had come to care so deeply about, and realized how much of his own feelings for Simon were perhaps more about _himself_ projecting what _he_ wanted onto his lieutenant.

 

_It’s not like I’ve seen his true colors or something, I know I’ve done things I’ve come to regret from drinking – not that I’ve forgiven him, exactly – but I’ve seen it bring out the worst in others. Still, it’s like he was telling me that night before the safe house op – there’s a whole other side to Simon, a dark one, he’s trying to suppress. What did he say, exactly?_

_“… My fucked up past will always haunt me.”_ Ghost’s words rang in his mind.

 

The lieutenant’s gaze stared off into the rolling hills, occasionally peered through a pair of binoculars.

 

“They’re all dead, Sanderson. Every last one of them. My mum, my little brother Tommy… my nephew, even my bastard father. I like to think I died along with ‘em, but part o’ me was honestly dead before that, thanks to my father’s care,” Ghost spat. “What I did last night… I remember enough to know I fucked up. And it’s no bloody excuse to piss and moan about my past. But the alcohol intensified ev’rythin’, instead of easin’ it, brought up shit I hadn’t thought up in years.”

 

_Just how dark is his past?_

 

“Did your father… did he ever abuse you?” Roach asked quietly. Roach recalled last night, thought that Ghost’s attempted domination of Roach was more an expression of power than it was about sexual gratification. It seemed consistent with what little he had read on the subject of sexual abuse from his university psychology course.

 

“Abuse, yes. Sexual? No,” Ghost continued his surveillance through the binoculars, his tone uncharacteristically light as if commenting on the weather patterns. There was another stretch of silence before Ghost continued.

 

“There was an op in Mexico, and things went to hell fast ‘cause the commanding officer was in the pocket of the drug lord my team was sent to kill. I was captured by the drug lord, Roba, tortured… assaulted, I suppose…”

 

“You suppose?” Roach asked. “What happened?”

 

Ghost sighed and Roach sensed aggravation. “What does it matter?”

 

“It matters because, if last night is any indication…” Roach chose his words carefully, wanted Ghost to open up, “You’re still struggling with how to process whatever happened. And you tried to nullify that abuse by taking it out on me, because I don’t think you’ve even yet come to terms with… well, what we’ve shared.” 

 

Ghost snapped his attention back to Roach, dropping the binoculars to the floor, “Would you stop with the bloody euphemisms? We wanked off, doesn’t mean I’m a pillow biter,” he snarled.   

 

“For fuck’s sake, never mind. You’ve been hot and cold ever since that glorious wank,” Roach’s agitation with Ghost flared. He was being downright offensive and all Roach wanted was to help him. “And it _was_ glorious, you know it, but it also bothers you – you need to get over yourself.”  

 

Ghost’s blue eyes narrowed into slits, rage flared his nostrils, distorting his face into something monstrous. “You think you’d have an easy time ‘gettin’ over yourself’ once you’ve been stripped down to nothing, a strange woman forced on you, her sexuality used as coercion when you’ve been starved, sleep deprived, denied the most basic comforts?” Ghost’s anger was quiet, simmering, dangerous; his hot breath rushed over Roach’s face as the man inched closer. “Do you know what it’s like, to wake up in a prison cell, mostly naked, with some sick fuck lickin’ your face? Only for you to imagine what he must have done while you were unconscious in that shithole?”  

 

Roach was dumbfounded as he processed the images Ghost described. _Shit._ He had no idea on the extent of Ghost’s psychological damage. With this revelation, Ghost’s confusion surrounding their relationship was deeper than just any confliction with his sexuality or the disruption it presented in the military chain of command. Ghost had endured sexual abuse and likely struggled to recognize genuine love and affection. 

 

Ghost’s faced gradually settled back into an uneasy neutral expression as he backed down on Roach. He picked up the binoculars, scanned the horizon. “In any case, it doesn’t excuse me for drinkin’ and acting like an arse. You have my apology, as I expect that’s what you’re here for.”

 

Roach was offended once more, believing he had his fill of the lieutenant for the morning, but remained concerned, wanting to help, “Don’t be thick. Not here for an apology, so don’t offer it; I’m here for _you._ Come to me if you want to talk instead of finding comfort in some disgusting drink. If not, I wouldn’t hold back on the kicking should I find you drunk again.”

 

“Appreciated,” Ghost grunted into the binoculars.  

 

Roach stood up to leave. “You haven’t mentioned this to many people, have you?”

 

“Not a single soul, until now,” Ghost murmured.

 

Roach left Ghost to his watch, not feeling much better than when he initially awoke. Yet he gained more insight on the inner turmoil of Ghost and realized it must have taken him a great deal of trust to confide in Roach about his past. Ghost’s complete trust and honesty would have to be earned but, at the very least, Roach sensed the foundation was established.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And in case anyone’s wondering, you will not see Yuri in this story. Sorry to any Yuri fans, but I find him too convenient and rather boring.


	4. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost wrestles with his guilt and conflicted emotions. After him and Price have another confrontation, Ghost comes clean to MacTavish about his drunken display with Roach, changing the nature of his friendship with his captain. When things smooth over, Ghost assists Roach with his personal hygiene and the two men reach a better understanding of one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think from now on my chapters will be shorter (but perhaps more frequent!), around the 3,000 to 4,000 word mark… which means, more chapters (probably!). Argh, I think I am too descriptive, but it helps me wrestle with the character’s thoughts and all, as I tell the story. So there’s not much action yet, in terms of plot development (this is another chapter focusing more on character development), but I hope a certain fan-service scene makes up for it… thanks for reading~

With the binoculars pressed against his face, Ghost heard rather than saw Roach’s departure. He was once more alone with nothing but the sprawling horizon, the warm breeze, the sound of an occasional bird song – and his internal conflict. The quiet landscape beckoned his shame, the isolation amplified his emotional turmoil, the monotony of the watch allowing his regret and confusion to simmer at the surface.

 

Earlier, he had relieved MacTavish from watch, thankful that his captain had been too exhausted to pry into his personal matters. He expected Price to appear at any moment to dismiss him from his post, hardly looked forward to the captain’s arrival; Price would undoubtedly get on his case about his behavior last night. Not that he had acted innocently – Ghost loathed his treatment of Roach the night prior, knew in his drunken state that he had asserted himself and taken it too far, that he had humiliated and harmed his brother-in-arms. Perhaps after their recent discussion, in which Ghost raised his voice and excused Roach of milking an apology from him, maybe Roach had experienced the final straw with Ghost.

 

His thoughts bombarded him as he observed the glowing orb of the sun gradually ascend the sky, as he examined the horizon for movement, struggling to focus on his task. It was a matter of seconds before he recalled his recent conversation with Roach again. Perhaps he had lost his cool, could have responded with less irritation and insults, but the hangover from last night had him at his wit’s end on top of Roach’s incessant prying. Ghost was uncomfortable divulging the details of his past, not just with Roach, but with everyone. After his time in Mexico, the Special Air Services ordered him a visit with a psychiatrist – a woman he had been somewhat fond of and, had she not been murdered by a brainwashed soldier who had attempted to frame _him_ , might have considered asking out for a drink. Even then he had only divulged the essential details of his time with the drug lord Roba.

 

While Roach claimed that airing his baggage would help him process everything he had endured, as far as Ghost was concerned, some wounds never healed. Discussing the past meant that the old memories and demons resurfaced; that he had to acknowledge that he lost his family, parts of his sanity, and at times, the ability to detect right from wrong. And that was the Ghost that Roach had faced mere hours ago, when he sought solace in the flask of vodka rather than in civil conversation. He could have ruined the man, in his intoxicated state, had Roach not been quick on his feet.

 

But Roach _was_ right about Price. The captain’s words about their illicit affair with had damaged him, made him question his own behavior and his motivations to pursue the relationship. Ghost recognized he had acted selfishly by avoiding Roach, as if to mitigate Price’s concerns, but he had needed time to think everything over. If Ghost was to be perfectly honest with himself, he had come to realize, he had rather thought of Gary Sanderson as a stand-in for his deceased younger brother. He truly _had_ cared for Roach – hell, he still did – but had never before projected a sexual attraction onto his subordinate until their moment alone before the safe house op.

 

The chance to take out Makarov – or so it seemed – had presented the most challenging mission he had encountered during his career in the one-four-one. Heck, even _he_ had been damn nervous about the unpredictability of the mission, the various contingencies that could have, and did, muck it all up. He had wanted Roach with him on that mission to look out for him, to ensure his safety throughout the hellish nightmare. Ghost had even considered the possibility of _not surviving_ the ordeal if Makarov had decided on drastic measures, such as taking out the task force suicide-style. But he had promised himself to do everything in his power to save Roach, to make sure that he would live to see his family again.

 

Just prior to the op, during their encounter in the locker room, Ghost’s respect for Roach had grown considerably in a short amount of time. Even Ghost had to acknowledge it had taken his sergeant a lot of balls attempting to remove his skull balaclava, forcing him to confront his insecurities before Roach. And when Roach suggested they make the most of the night before the impending mission, Ghost did something he had never done before – pushed aside all inhibitions and let himself live in the moment. He had stood before Roach, allowing his sergeant to remove his mask, and recalled in that very instant that, for the first time, he took notice of _Gary Sanderson_ – not just Roach – and saw the brown eyes flecked with splashes of green, lined with dark lashes; a slight cowlick that made the hairs stick upward on his short fringe; a tiny reddish birthmark on a collarbone.

 

When he looked at Gary’s expectant expression it had been Ghost who crushed his lips into the man’s, the kiss uncertain and rough, partially to challenge the sincerity of Roach’s offer, partially because of his own reservations about affection. But Roach responded with care, encouragement, and one thing had led to another, quickly and with a heady passion that Ghost had never before experienced in his life.

 

_Think I need a new word to define this mess that I’m feelin’._

 

“Mornin’,” Price grumbled from the staircase alcove. 

 

“Sir,” Ghost replied.

 

“Think you ought to take a double shift,” Price suggested.

 

“I won’t argue it.”

 

Price pursed his lips. “It’s one thing to pursue lust when your life’s on the line – that I can understand, even if it _is_ with another bloke,” Price remarked, walking up to Ghost. “But recklessness? You were shit-faced last night. You could have compromised the entire force. What do you think might have happened had we been ambushed?” Price finished, all quiet anger, towering over the crouched Ghost.

 

Ghost slowly stood up from his position, a head taller now than Price, kept his voice in check. He looked the field captain in the eye.

 

“I fucked up proper, ain’t gonna dispute it, Price. I’ll be up here all day and it wouldn’t be ‘nuff compensation for the danger I put us all in,” Ghost replied, equally soft. “But I’m gonna have to ask you to keep outta my personal business. Believe MacTavish already told you his thoughts on the matter, so I suggest you talk to him should you have forgotten.”

 

_I was out of line, not gonna argue that… but I’ll not have him humiliate me over Roach. Had enough of it._

“Like it or not, it’s my damn business when it involves my men,” Price raised an eye brow. “You think me a bloody fool? You went and pissed yourself for a reason, didn’t you? Relationship problems already?” He flashed a brief grimace.

 

Ghost felt his blood boil within; he was far angrier with Price than he had been with Roach this morning. His grip on the binoculars at his side caused the plastic around a lens to crack. He had attempted to diffuse the situation by telling Price to keep out of his personal matters, but the old captain was irritatingly persistent, and now Ghost imagined his only recourse might involve a physical altercation if Price continued his crusade.

 

“Price?” A Scottish voice echoed from the alcove. MacTavish stepped onto the roof, wearing sweats and an A-shirt, suppressed a yawn, “Thought I heard you here.”

 

MacTavish’s sudden arrival disrupted Ghost’s violent imagination, grounding him back to reality. Ghost realized in that moment his threatening proximity to Price, perhaps what could only be described as ‘danger close.’ Mere moments ago, he had actually considered using violence against the old man – whether for show or for effect – it mattered little to him. Hell, they were _supposed_ to be professionals, not enemies, and the gravity of Ghost’s irrational thinking hit him like a brick wall. Ghost relaxed his posture and Price followed suit.

 

MacTavish paused mid-step, stood in place. Price and Ghost were inches from one another, and their hasty attempt at ‘casual’ likely arose more suspicion in the field captain than it did to convince him that an argument had _not_ been taking place mere seconds before his entrance to the scene. 

 

“Ah, you on Riley’s case ‘bout the drinkin’? Nikolai told me last night when I relieved him,” MacTavish explained.

 

“Soap, you know as well as I that Riley here’s been acting reckless,” Price stepped away from Ghost to approach MacTavish. “If it weren’t for the circumstances, I’d be filing a report for a forced leave of absence.”

 

“Price, what we need now is solidarity, not this,” MacTavish shook his head earnestly. “I think Riley deserves leniency, not resentment.”

 

Ghost appreciated MacTavish’s concern but he also acknowledged the veracity of Price’s judgement – the insinuations about his ‘relationship problems’ hit him personally. The field captain already made it clear that he wanted to intervene; how would he react knowing that Ghost had forced himself on Roach in his drunken stupor? Ghost himself failed to conjure up an appropriate punishment, and had the situation of the task force not been a matter of life and death, Ghost imagined he would have no choice but to divulge the full extent of his behavior to Price.  

 

“Told him to do another watch,” Price grunted, crossed his arms.

 

“Aye,” MacTavish replied, looked over to Ghost. “Seems fair; the behavior can’t go without penalty.”

 

“Hell, I’ll do three,” Ghost offered. 

 

“Two’s fine, Riley; any more than that, you won’t be alert enough to do the job,” MacTavish said. “Just promise you won’t touch the bottle while we’re out here, situation’s shite enough as it is.”  

 

“Yes, sir,” Ghost responded, sincere.

 

_Fuck, Price isn’t_ entirely _off the rocker, is he?_ Ghost could not deny that his emotional stability was in flux by his choices of the last several days, coupled with everything that had transpired beyond his control.

 

“Good,” Price consented. “I’ll return in a couple o’ hours.” He nodded slightly at MacTavish and left the roof top.

 

MacTavish, stretching his arms to shake off fatigue, walked up to Ghost.

 

“Riley, I’ve never seen you off your game like this before. What’s going on, mate?”

 

_Now MacTavish wants to talk_. ‘ _Course he does. I’ve been a bleedin’ mess._

“The shit’s hit the fan hard. Not used to it,” Ghost kept his reply vague, hoping it would satisfy his captain’s concerns. But having known MacTavish in their years of friendship and mutual respect, Ghost doubted the sufficiency of his reply.

 

“Drinking ain’t gonna provide the control you’re after, Riley. We’re all experiencing this hell we’ve found ourselves in, and I know we’re all gonna respond to it differently, but you’ve put our morale in jeopardy after last night. Price’s confidence means a lot to me. He’s concerned about every man on this squad, but he’s blunt in his way – not unlike yourself, at times.”

 

“Aye,” Ghost replied. “I realize.” Truthfully, he had not made the connection before. MacTavish was perceptive, he gave him that.

 

“’Course you do. Perhaps why Royce used to call you ‘Sunshine,” MacTavish smirked.

 

“Did he? Rest his soul, but he always did talk crap ‘bout every man on the force.”

 

MacTavish cleared his throat, smirk fading, “As for Price, you know by now, I’ve told Sanderson I’m turnin’ a blind eye on you two. It’s not that I find it distasteful, just unusual – and entirely unexpected, if I’m to be perfectly honest with you… But considerin’ what we’ve been through, I don’t give a damn – as long as it doesn’t interfere with morale.”

 

Ghost felt relief at MacTavish’s words, his hands-off way of dealing with him and Roach. It was reasonable, the way his captain disclosed his perspective, and MacTavish’s style was a far cry from the intrusion and insults offered by Price. MacTavish’s honesty stirred him; Ghost cocked his head halfway towards MacTavish, not quite making eye contact.

 

“To be honest with _you_ , it’s unexpected for _me_.”

 

MacTavish stared at Ghost in silence for a few seconds before he spoke, as if reading beneath the surface of Ghost’s words. “I realize it’s none of my business… but if you’re uncertain, just be honest with Sanderson. The boy deserves it. And as much as Price’s conservatism shades him, he’s right ‘bout one thing – we don’t need dramatics.”

 

Ghost nodded slowly as he shifted his gaze back to the horizon, scanning the landscape. His captain, his leader, his mate had actually given him relationship advice – about a man they had _both_ trained and led into combat. But far more pressing than that was not just the unusual topic of their conversation but that Ghost still carried the burden of the awful truth about last night.

 

“MacTavish,” Ghost croaked, his throat dry. Anxiety bubbled sickly in his empty stomach.

 

His captain quirked an eye brow at him, “Yeah, mate?”

 

“Before Price found me sleeping in my own vomit last night… I was alone with Sanderson…”

 

MacTavish pursed his lips uncomfortably.

 

“I was proper pissed from the vodka Nikolai brought – and it’s no excuse, mind you – but Sanderson wanted a private moment, and I got… aggressive. If he hadn’t been quick with his reflexes, I might have seriously hurt him.”

 

MacTavish’s nostrils flared as he clenched his jaw, “Bollocks, Riley! What in the hell would possess you to do such a thing?!” He stepped forward, closing in on Ghost. “As if I didn’t have enough crap to deal with being peace keeper between you and Price. I just defended _your_ bloody side!”

 

Ghost stood his ground but did nothing to protest. He would have submitted to a beating had MacTavish decided on violence, but the field captain kept himself in check. He exhaled sharply as he turned to look away from Ghost – as if too disgusted by his presence – and stared at the lush horizon.

 

“And how is Sanderson? Need I speak with him to hear his side of the story?” MacTavish’s tone simmered with frustration and anger.

 

“I believe he’s neglected to mention it with you and Price as his way of protecting me. I’ve disclosed it now because I know I was in the wrong.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” MacTavish grimaced at the sky. “In lieu of an investigation, the correct procedure is for me to interview Sanderson… and if he’s _not_ okay, I can’t allow you two in the same room alone – ever.”

 

“MacTavish, I know I fucked up proper – ”

 

“Aye, that you did,” MacTavish directed his gaze back to Ghost. “But, you did tell me the truth, so I suppose that it’s worth something. Still, if I see you so much as _sniffing_ alcohol… ”

 

“You’ve my permission to do your damn worst,” Ghost finished.

 

“Now that we’ve reached an understanding, I’ll leave you to it,” MacTavish spared Ghost a final glare as he retreated to the stairway. Ghost exhaled, attempting composure, but he had another two hours with nothing but his miserable thoughts for company…

 

The empty horizon offered nothing of interest. He once again thought about Roach, their exchange in the shower room on base, the satisfaction before the storm. He recalled telling him that he had regretted leaving him out for so long, but had he truly meant it? Perhaps it simply seemed the only decent thing to say at the time, or that he was caught up in the moment of lust and the adrenaline at the prospect of the mission. The whole scenario felt like a dream when he reflected on those moments between him and Gary. But it did happen, the sharing of their fears, uncertainties, and their desires. Roach had given himself completely to Ghost, had been confident as he led them through their mutual caressing. But he had not pressured Ghost to take it too far, beyond his comfort level. 

 

It was exactly that emotional exchange and understanding that frightened Ghost; his torment in Mexico had only exacerbated his fears of intimacy, associating his vulnerability with abuse and manipulation. It was not that he expected some kind of betrayal on Roach’s part; rather, it was the unfamiliarity of the situation and the associated, conflicting emotions that chipped away at his conscious.

 

Beyond his mum and brother, Ghost was certain that he had never loved anyone. His previous sexual encounters mostly centered on random women – names and faces he could not recall nor cared to – that had propositioned him, rather than vice versa. He had never truly experienced a meaningful relationship.

 

Now, Ghost struggled to define his feelings for Roach, especially given the boundaries they had both crossed, coupled with the notion that sexual gratification for him had never been about love nor trust. Roach had actually redefined what intimacy could mean for him, yet he resisted – how was he to accept that his most tender exchange had occurred with another man, his subordinate, someone he once harbored brotherly concern for?

 

…

 

Ghost was struggling to keep his eye lids from sagging and closing shut when Price entered the rooftop, the soldier’s heavy boots upon the stone heralding his arrival. Ghost outstretched his arm with the binoculars, offering the item to Price. The old field captain nodded noncommittally as Ghost walked passed him.

 

“Riley,” Price barked as Ghost stepped onto the stairway landing that led to the dormitory.

 

“Sir?” Ghost paused, cocked his head towards the other man’s direction.

 

“Soap wants a word with you.”

 

“Aye,” Ghost offered a curt nod and descended the stairs briskly, not wanting a prolonged conversation with Price. He was ready to move past last night, which meant making amends with MacTavish and Roach.

 

Ghost hurried to the dining area, exhausted, as a dull throbbing coursed through his head. But sleep would evade him if he forced himself to rest in his current state. He entered the dining area and hastily dumped a couple teaspoons of instant coffee into a room-temperature bottle of water. He could care less about how it was going to taste; he simply needed the caffeine fix. Ghost shook the bottle to mix the contents as he left the room to search for MacTavish.

 

He heard the hurried voices of Nikolai and MacTavish from the armory as he entered the room. Both men were pouring over a topographical map of a region Ghost could not recognize.

 

“Captain?” Ghost interrupted.

 

MacTavish looked abruptly from the map, “If you’ll excuse me, Nikolai, I’ll return in a moment.”

 

His captain stepped into the hall and gestured for Ghost to follow him into the sleeping quarters.

 

“I spoke to Sanderson and he’s not requested that I intervene; I’ve decided to respect his decision as he’s not holding you _solely_ accountable for your behavior, rather the drinking. There’s only so much stress we can handle right now. Promise me this is the last I hear about you drinking or harming another man on this squad?”

 

“I promise, sir,” Ghost returned, humbled.

 

“I’ll hold you to it,” MacTavish nodded. “Sanderson – he was surprised that you had been forthright with me about it, and I think he rather admires that you did. I think he’s in the medical area cleanin’ himself up, should you want to talk.”

 

MacTavish offered a final curt nod and left. Ghost knew MacTavish was still disappointed in him, and rightfully so, but given enough time and the pressing mission of dealing with Makarov and the remnants of Shepherd’s men would have them cooperating soon enough. Ghost momentarily longed for the old times and the men he had lost – Archer, Toad, Ozone, Scarecrow – he made a silent vow that their lost lives would fuel his revenge, that their deaths would not be forgotten. In the process, he would earn his captain’s trust and confidence again.

 

He entered the impromptu medical bay and saw Roach hovering over two small plastic containers positioned on top of the stone slab, pouring a bottle of water into each of the bowls. Beside him on the stone slab was a small wash cloth, a ratty towel, and a bar of soap. Ghost surmised he was prepping a quick and dirty method for bathing.

 

Roach looked up from the plastic basins filled with water, his eyes meeting Ghost’s, but the other man’s expression was difficult to read. Ghost reckoned Roach appeared calmer than he had been this morning yet his neutral face seemed to belie deeper thoughts. 

 

“Hoping this will handle the grime,” Roach explained. “MacTavish and Nikolai used moist towelettes, the pre-packaged kind, but it’s not the same to me… I haven’t properly bathed since – since before the safe house op.”

 

Roach cast his eyes away from Ghost back to the water-filled bowls, grabbed the white bar of soap, and placed it inside one of the containers. Ghost watched as he scrubbed the washcloth against the soap inside the water to build up a lather.

 

“Nor I,” Ghost replied.

 

“What can I do for you, sir?” Roach asked politely, disrupting Ghost’s reverie. The formal tone and use of _sir_ were somewhat forced.

 

“I told MacTavish ‘bout what happened, and I know he’s spoken with you – as long as you’re comfortable with me being here, I wanted to tell you that our talk this mornin’ did help some… Unless you’d prefer to have your privacy, I’ll take my coffee and go.”

 

Roach paused his hands that were working on the soap. “I don’t mind, and I’m glad you came clean to MacTavish,” he lowered his face over the basin that contained the soapy water and splashed his face.  Ghost saw his face tighten in pain as he leaned over the basin; the gunshot wound clearly irked him.

 

“Aren’t you on meds, for the pain?” Ghost asked.

 

“Trying to wean myself off, so I’ve cut my dose in half. I was already feeling the dependency set in, started to look forward to taking it. The dose manages the worst of the pain, but when I move a certain way, it rather smarts,” Roach explained.

 

“Wise decision,” Ghost nodded.

 

Roach splashed his face again, this time with the water without soap. He patted his face with the ratty towel. Ghost realized their conversation had been derailed by his abrupt question, and now he struggled to continue where he had left off. He had meant to tell Roach the multitude of contradictory thoughts that he had wrestled with on the rooftop during his watch, but he now found it impossible to find the words that would adequately explain his internal conflict.

 

Ghost watched as Roach grabbed the soapy washcloth and gingerly scrubbed his right underarm; he winced again.

 

“You reckon you should do that yourself?” Ghost asked. He felt uncomfortable watching the solider struggle with a simple act of personal hygiene.

 

“Nikolai and MacTavish are working on a playbook for Isayev’s arrival. I’m not going to pester them; I’ve been enough trouble, as is.”

 

Ghost removed his gloves, placed them in a pocket, and paced the few steps to stand beside Roach.

 

“You can pester me; I’ve the time,” Ghost said, looking Roach in the eye.

 

Roach returned Ghost’s stare, the washcloth held in his hand. Ghost gently wrapped his fingers around Roach’s enclosed fist and pulled the fabric from the other man’s grip.

 

“It’s appreciated, but don’t do it if you feel obligated, for whatever reason,” Roach said. 

 

Ghost shrugged, “I’d do the same for anyone else on this squad, mate.”

 

_Mate._ The word always managed to slip out as if he was trying to convince himself they were friends, had never been anything more than just that.

 

“You should remove that, unless you want your shirt washed,” Ghost gestured at Roach’s A-shirt.

 

Roach inched the hemline over his stomach, revealing the contours of his abdomen and the purplish-red bruising around the bandaged wound. He grimaced as he started to lift the shirt over his head.

 

“I haven’t actually changed my shirt yet, because of the pain,” Roach explained.

 

“Here, stop,” Ghost offered. Roach relaxed his arms at his side. “We’ve more of these shirts, right?”

 

“Price has a few extra that I saw stowed away.”

 

Ghost placed the washcloth back into the soapy water. He fished through the boxes of medical supplies haphazardly organized by Price. After digging for about a minute, Ghost spotted the silver blades enclosed by a bright blue plastic handle. He retrieved the scissors, approached Roach, placed the snips at the hem of Roach’s shirt, and guided the blade upwards to the man’s armpit. He quickly snipped the strap of fabric at Roach’s shoulder. The cloth parted and Ghost gently peeled the shirt from Roach’s body, felt his warm skin and saw him flush slightly from the contact.

 

“Thanks,” Roach murmured. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

 

“No worries… you all set?”

 

Roach nodded. Ghost placed the scissors aside and retrieved the washcloth.

 

“I’ll start here,” Ghost positioned himself behind Roach and saw the tiny flecks of black dirt on Roach’s skin, caked to his body with sweat. He recalled that the grime might have clung to Roach’s body during their desperate flee from the safe house as he set the cloth onto the man’s back and gently scrubbed his skin in a circular motion. Ghost felt the tension ease from Roach’s posture as he massaged the soapy hand towel across his shoulders and then down across his back.

 

“I should find the time for this myself,” Ghost mused quietly.

 

“You ought to,” Roach sighed with a noticeable relaxed contentment. Ghost continued the circular movement of the soapy washcloth on Roach’s back until the grime washed away. He rinsed the cloth in the pure water and cleaned the remaining soapsuds from Roach’s skin. Ghost thought it strangely calming, attending to Roach, as he focused on the repetitive movement of his own hands upon the washcloth that scrubbed Roach’s back. The blurred motion of the fabric across Roach’s tan skin almost threw him into a trance.

 

“I think that’s good,” Roach said.

 

Ghost paused. He realized then he had passed over the same section of Roach’s lower back about three times.

 

“Right,” Ghost replied. “I’ll move to your arms.”

 

Ghost returned the cloth to the soapy water, created more lather, and wiped down Roach’s left arm as he stood off to Roach’s side. From what he saw of Roach’s profile, his eyes were closed as Ghost cleaned his arm, his face lax with comfort. He moved to scrub Roach’s right arm, taking notice of the pronounced bicep. Roach was a strong man imbued with determination; he would recover from this – _I just sure as hell hope it doesn’t ruin him like my own past has done to me._

 

He finished with Roach’s arms, now confronted with the prospect of looking the other man in the eye as he scrubbed his chest and stomach. He ringed the washcloth again in the water with soapsuds, lingered for several seconds, even though it was unnecessary as the washcloth had plenty of soap. Ghost felt foolish for his mild apprehension – there was hardly anything about the situation that should make him feel hesitant to assist Roach, aside from the implicit eroticism channeled from their shared memory of their previous shower. But the man was recovering, after all, and Ghost knew it would be tactless and inconsiderate to have him struggle in his current condition.

 

He removed the washcloth from the water and turned to face Roach.

 

“I’ll take it from here,” Roach offered.

 

“No need… as long as you’re alright?” Ghost asked quietly, forcing himself to concentrate on the act as strictly utilitarian.

 

“Yeah, I am,” Roach said.

 

He gently placed the cloth on Roach’s pectoral, squeezing the fabric to release the sudsy liquid onto the soldier’s skin. Thin tears of water gushed from the fabric and streamed down Roach’s chest, tracing the contours of his abdominal muscles. Roach closed his eyes as Ghost wiped the cloth across his body, removing smears of filmy dirt and traces of blood.

 

“Thanks…” Roach murmured, his eyes flickering open, as Ghost gingerly wiped the skin around his bandaged wound. Ghost dipped the cloth into the pure water and placed it on Roach’s skin to remove the last of the soapsuds from Roach’s abdominal area. Ghost glanced into Roach’s green eyes, felt the appreciation that emanated from within. It was good, looking after him, but Ghost still felt himself an arse for his treatment of Roach the night prior. As Ghost cleaned the last of the soap from Roach, he knew he was fooling himself that his actions were merely in service of helping his mate – he, too, took pleasure in caring for Roach as well as the feel of his firm body beneath the washcloth.

 

Ghost fetched the old towel and handed it to Roach, their fingertips brushing in the exchange. Roach patted himself down.

 

“I don’t think my legs are too bad, I was mostly worried about anything foreign entering the wound from all the sweat,” he explained. “Still, I feel bloody useless… You, MacTavish, Price – you can all fight the good fight. But me? I’ve to start physical therapy, rehabilitate… Meanwhile, Mak is still out there, and we’ve been blamed for Shepherd’s death.”

 

“No use beatin’ yourself up about it,” Ghost shrugged. “Not your fault…” The image of General Shepherd’s bloody corpse courtesy of his own pummeling fists flashed into his mind’s eye. The mutilation of the body had hardly been enough to satisfy his need for vengeance. He recalled wanting to do worse to the general, out of fear that Roach might not live from the loss of blood.

 

“Easy for you to say, you’re in top form, as always.”

 

_Despite everything I’ve done he’s still respectful. He’s a better man than I._

“Sanderson,” Ghost stood about a foot from the man, having not moved since handing Roach the towel. The other man’s brown-green eyes hovered a couple inches below his own. “I’ve treated you like shite, mate. I’m sorry ‘bout what I’ve put you through.”

 

“The bathing wasn’t so shitty,” a corner of Roach’s mouth twitched upward into an anxious smirk, his bright eyes sparkling. He ran a hand through his hair, tousling the small fringe.  

 

Ghost felt a sudden impulse and undeniable attraction, wanted to wrap his arms around Roach’s waist, and pull him gently forward until their taut stomachs were pressed together. But given Ghost’s behavior last night, the action hardly seemed appropriate. He needed Roach to trust him.

 

Ghost leaned back slightly to maintain level eye contact with the other man, the two stood still for several seconds, silent. Ghost felt Roach’s arms slowly wrap around his waist as the green eyes met, with a searching look, Ghost’s blue gaze. A rush of self-consciousness washed over him, mingled with the lingering guilt from his behavior; how could Roach be so tender, almost in a naïve way, after Ghost’s treatment of him last night? He gently removed Roach’s arms off his sides, took a few steps backward. He wanted to avoid anything rash.

 

“It’s… I’m a bloody mess right now, and after last night... All I know is that I’ve wanted to keep you from harm, that I care about you, but it’s nothin’ I’ve quite – It’s not anythin’ I’ve experience with.”

 

“Look, I’ve _been_ someone’s experiment before,” Roach said, rather firm. “I once had a mate from uni pursue me, only to dump me once I fell for him. And that wasn’t too long after my first girlfriend of nearly three years turned down my proposal.”

 

Ghost was a little shocked at Roach’s disclosure, not that he had spent a great deal of time pondering the inclinations of his men. Merely, he simply overlooked the possibility that Roach might be interested in both men and women. It was hardly a serious issue for Ghost, who had personally avoided confronting or questioning his own sexuality for most of his life. Rather, Ghost actually felt a twinge of envy mingled with respect that someone roughly five years his junior was far more comfortable in his own skin and sexual identity.

 

“So tell me, what the hell are we doing?” Roach pleaded, his eyes narrowed.

 

“Wish I knew,” Ghost muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He fetched his bottle of gritty instant coffee and downed a large swig. “You can’t understand what I’m dealing with.”

 

Roach took a few steps toward Ghost. “I’ll not be your emotional punching bag, Simon – you’ve got to actually talk to me. Bloody hell, how can I _not_ understand what you’re dealing with? You think I _haven’t_ struggled?”

 

“You seem comfortable enough,” Ghost shrugged, examining the contents of his instant coffee to avoid looking Roach in the eye.

 

“I’m twenty-eight. I came out as bisexual nearly ten years ago. I’ve had a lot of time to get comfortable. Doesn’t happen overnight.”

 

Ghost nodded and set his bottle of coffee aside. “I’m just not sure what to make of it.”

 

“You have a most impressive talent of expressing yourself in as vague statements as possible,” Roach returned.

 

Ghost knew he was being purposively evasive, so he was hardly annoyed by Roach’s sarcasm. If anything, it emboldened him to be more forthright.

 

“I thought you were like a brother to me, Sanderson,” Ghost confessed. “And then the lust went to my head – hadn’t been intimate in quite some time – but now, I’ve gotta figure out the emotions behind it. I know it ain’t comforting for you to hear it, but it’s the way it is.”

 

“I’ll take the honesty over cryptic clues.”

 

_MacTavish was right ‘bout dealing with Roach. Truth has a way with him, even the brutal kind that would turn others away._

 

“Riley? Sanderson?!” MacTavish’s voice boomed down the adjacent stone corridor.

 

“In the med bay!” Ghost yelled.

 

“Come down to the mess hall, we’ve got tactics to discuss!” MacTavish replied.

 

“Aye, on our way!” Ghost returned. “C’mon, let’s get you a shirt?” he added to Roach.

 

Ghost and Roach walked in silence to the dormitory. He felt relieved having told Roach about his conflicted feelings on the relationship, felt even better that Roach had taken it well – or seemingly did.

 

While Ghost found it hard to suppress his sexual desire for Roach as he had bathed him, it hardly seemed right to act on his lust after his drunken antics of the night prior. And if he was going to move forward with Roach, he wanted to be damn certain that his emotions behind the desire were sincere, had to be sure that their bond was more than just a physical attraction. They were putting a lot at stake to be involved in their line of work. He needed a clear conscious to sort through it, and as much as Roach wanted to define their relationship, Ghost had to let him know that it was going to take time. In the meantime, Ghost would look out for him, in his own way.

 

They entered the dorm. Roach nodded towards a duffle bag and Ghost retrieve a fresh A-shirt. He stood in front of Roach, stretched the shirt’s neck hole between both hands, and offered to slide it over Roach’s head. He knew the man was capable, but like with the bathing, it gave him a sense of satisfaction. Roach bent his head forward slightly for Ghost to place the neck hole over him. Ghost slid the shirt into position and stretched the fabric down the other man’s body as Roach gingerly wiggled his arms through the openings.  

 

“Thanks,” Roach breathed.

 

“Welcome. Let’s see what our Captain wants, eh?” Ghost said, leading the way.


	5. Gains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacTavish, Ghost, Roach, and Nikolai debate a plan for dealing with Isayev should she decided to screw them over. Ghost offers a potential solution while Roach worries about the outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kinda tired of typing/reading ‘Roach’ and ‘Ghost’ constantly, so I've tried using their real names more often. Sorry if it looks inconsistent, but you know who I’m writing about… 
> 
> Oh! And I was re-reading Of Doubts and Dreams and noticed I made Ghost a ‘reddish-blonde’ in that story. I think I conceptualized that after noticing his blue eyes and light colored eyebrows in the video game. I know he’s brunette in the comics, but – what the hell – his eyes are brown in the comics and we know that’s not canon. So I’m keeping Ghost a blonde – for better or for worse.

MacTavish nodded as Ghost and Roach entered the communal dining area. He spared Roach a brief, half-smile and quickly returned his attention to a large topographical map spread on the countertop as he and Ghost took their seats at the table across from the standing captain. MacTavish’s stiff mannerisms suggested to Roach that he was slightly uncomfortable with the lieutenant’s presence, the captain’s usual easy camaraderie replaced with stoic professionalism. Simon’s confession about the drinking, about his alcohol-induced aggression towards Gary, had clearly rattled MacTavish’s confidence in the man.

 

When MacTavish had approached Gary on the subject, he was admittedly surprised that Simon had confided his behavior at all – he had put a lot at risk to disclose the truth. Gary not only admired MacTavish for his concern but also respected Simon for his confession. Yet Gary knew the issue could only be resolved between him and Simon, personally, and had politely requested that MacTavish allow them to work through their issues. While it would take time for him to fully forgive Simon for his actions, his apology and the sincerity of the bathing had eased their conflict.

_Actions do speak louder than words…_ Gary let himself momentarily recall the caress of the washcloth as Simon had cleaned the filth from his skin. It was more than just the physical pleasure of being bathed by another that had been enjoyable, it was also about the emotional concern and commitment Simon had demonstrated. Even Simon’s assistance with the removal of Gary’s shirt using the scissors had moved him, as he had done everything in his power to ensure Gary was not subjected to more discomfort than necessary. Ghost had repeatedly referred to him as a _mate_ yet Gary knew their relationship was more complicated than implied; Simon’s admission that he needed time to work through his emotions had solidified that.

 

At this point, with their situation hanging in a delicate balance, Gary knew he had previously pushed for more than Simon was comfortable with. He was, admittedly, disappointed that Ghost had rejected his embrace, his desire to hold and comfort him, yet he also acknowledged that Ghost’s practicality was the best course of action – to pressure more out of him when he was still confused and struggling with the demons of his past would only cause their relationship to burn out as quickly as the spark had been ignited. Gary was prepared to give the embers of their burgeoning relationship room to breathe, but would not fan their passion into a fiery conflagration that consumed all in its path.

 

Nikolai was seated at a stool off to the side of the card table. The Russian looked somewhat reserved and Roach suspected that Price might have given him more than a few choice words about the flow of alcohol from the previous night.

 

“Alright, here’s the plan,” MacTavish said, scanning the men arranged at the small table.

 

“Nikolai and I were discussin’ an evac strategy should Isayev decide to do anythin’ rash,” the captain locked eyes with each of the men. “She doesn’t know Nikolai’s with us – although, I’m fairly certain she suspects we might’ve external support by now. In any case, the plan is to keep Nik outta sight when she _graces us_ with her presence. He’ll back us up should anythin’ go awry with smoke grenades – we can use the cover to escape through the back exit and rendezvous at Nik’s pave low. Sound good?”

 

Roach nodded and offered an _hmm_ in agreement. Ghost frowned slightly, his forehead creasing.

 

“What if she arrives before dusk? If it’s still daylight, what are we to use for cover as we make our escape?” Ghost asked.

 

“It’ll be trickier,” MacTavish replied. “But we’ve enough ammo to defend ourselves, if need be. Priority one is to reach the pave low, but, should we not have the cover of nightfall to our advantage...”

 

MacTavish pointed his index finger on the topographical map. Roach and Ghost leaned forward to view; it was the monastery and surrounding terrain. “There’s a small hill half a klick northwest of our location… we run for it and use it as a sniping position. We’ll defend ourselves until they fall back from our location, giving us an opportunity to escape.”

 

MacTavish cocked his head at Roach, “Sanderson, I know in your condition, moving fast isn’t ideal – it might even cause a stitch to re-open. We could set you up at the rendezvous point ahead of time –”

 

Roach shook his head, “Sir, that’ll only arouse suspicion when they realize I’m missing.”

 

“Aye,” MacTavish agreed. “Was only goin’ to go through with it if yah thought it impossible to evacuate.”

 

“I’ll be able to handle it,” Roach affirmed. He knew MacTavish’s thinking was not meant to patronize him, merely, it was the nature of good strategy to consider all possible situations. 

 

“Good,” MacTavish said. “Nikolai has additional details to share, I’ll hand it over to him.”

 

Nikolai nodded at the captain and turned his gaze on Roach and Ghost.

 

“We have Loyalist hideout in Himachal Pradesh, India. Should be safe. I will take all of you there to regroup with my men should we need to retreat. I listened to the UN frequencies and what Isayev told you is the truth – the task force is considered rogue and orders are issued to kill members on sight. The US Army blames the task force for Shepherd’s death.”

 

“Bloody ‘ell,” Ghost groaned, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Isayev could easily clear our names if she released the intel she _supposedly_ has on Shepherd.”

 

“Thank you, Nikolai,” MacTavish ignored Ghost’s dramatic outburst. “And don’t forget, we’ve our part of the bargain – If she’s to be trusted, Isayev will clear our names once Makarov is dead.”

 

“And if she betrays us, too, sir?” Ghost challenged, sitting upright. Roach sensed the stress and irritation in his voice and body language – not quite directed at the captain, but at the situation. Yet it was enough to cause the atmosphere in the room to change from a dispassionate discussion of tactics among comrades to the issuing of orders from a captain to his subordinates. MacTavish straightened his posture, stepped closer to the table.

 

“I’m not out rulin’ the possibility, Riley,” MacTavish bristled. “That’s why we have the rendezvous at the pave low should it all go askew. Sure, her intel is potentially valuable to us, but do we even have proof it exists? There are other ways of proving Shepherd’s deceit and our innocence.”

 

Ghost stood up abruptly from his chair, fixed his eyes on the captain, “I don’t trust her and neither does Price. What does he make of all this?”

 

Roach was somewhat surprised the direction the conversation was taking, that Ghost was reacting so strongly to the plan. It was hardly the first time Roach had seen the captain and lieutenant butting heads yet this time Ghost’s adamancy simply came across as defiant given the fact that their options were severely limited.

 

 _MacTavish’s tactics seem sensible enough considering we’ll be outnumbered and outgunned once Isayev returns_. As the task force had few alternatives, Roach believed it made sense to cooperate until their hand was forced; he struggled to understand Ghost’s irritation with their captain.

 

“Look,” Nikolai interjected. “The woman is dangerous and known to be rash – we Loyalists don’t trust her. But Soap have good plan.”

 

“That supposed to be comforting?” Ghost gestured outwardly at nothing in particular, indicating his exasperation.

_I mean, what exactly does he expect from MacTavish?_ The biggest sign that Ghost disagreed with him was the mention of Price – the two certainly had their differences of late – and clearly Ghost was willing to put it aside if Price had his back on the matter.

 

“I’m gonna relay the strategy to Price as soon as Nikolai takes over the watch,” MacTavish locked eyes with Ghost, took a few steps around the table to approach his lieutenant. “The plan’s not set in stone. If you’ve any _ideas_ rather than just _criticism,_ I’m listenin’.”

 

“Think we ought to have the upper hand, use the hideout to our advantage,” Ghost stepped away from the table, and began to pace with his hands clasped behind his back. MacTavish watched him, arms crossed, gaze scrutinizing.

 

Ghost turned on his heel towards the task force, arms still behind his back, “Its good strategy to use Nikolai as our ace in the hole but the current tactic utilizes him as Plan B. I say we cut straight to it – make Nikolai part of Plan A. Force Isayev to offer up anythin’ that levels the playing field. You know she just wants to us to get to Makarov – we’re better trained than her men on covert operations. Sure, she’ll be more than happy to use us for her own ends, but should we get caught in the crossfire? You reckon she’ll shed a tear?”

 

MacTavish frowned, “I see your point, Riley, but she _has_ offered to help us deal with Shepherd’s man – that Viper fellow.”

 

“What if we had a way to get him on Isayev’s trail? She’s the one that bloody killed Shepherd, after all.”

 

MacTavish’s eyes brightened, “Mate, _now_ you’ve my attention.”

 

…

 

Roach was mulling over the plan for what felt like the one hundredth time since the meeting adjourned. He was seated in the armory on a stone outcropping, inspecting his handgun and refilling spare clips, in an attempt to rid his anxiety of the impending confrontation. Task Force 141 was ready whether Isayev cooperated or not. Only he doubted whether _he_ was ready for her, too.

 

Ghost ducked into the small threshold, paused when he saw Roach, “You alright?”

 

Roach placed his handgun and ammo clips to the side, “Honestly – I don’t feel good.”

 

Ghost slid next to Roach on the crude seat, “Wound smartin’ again?”

 

Roach shook his head, sighed, “I meant about Isayev.”

 

Ghost raised an eyebrow, gave him a questioning look.

 

Roach continued, “Don’t get me wrong, I think you offered up a good plan. Nikoali secretly recording Isayev is the best shot we have at holding her accountable for Shepherd’s death… But we don’t exactly know how prepared she’ll be. And that Anatoli, her pilot, and all of her men – they seem fiercely loyal. I imagine many would die for her.”

 

“It’s true, but we’ve to try, no?” Ghost replied quietly. “Things could get a helluva lot worse if we don’t assert ourselves.”

 

Roach nodded.

 

“I was worried about you, Sanderson,” Ghost added. “The last time she threatened you, pointed a loaded gun at your head – as if you weren’t already defenseless enough from your injuries. She made my blood boil. I don’t wanna see her continue to use us like that.”

 

“You’re right, we can’t afford to be someone else’s puppets. We already had that _fun_ with Shep.”

 

Ghost snorted, a smiled played at his lips, “Well, he got what was comin’ to him… even if we _do_ owe it to the bloody Russians.”

 

“What does Price think of the plan?” Roach asked.

 

“He likes it,” Ghost murmured, looking at Roach, their shoulders brushing as they sat side-by-side. Roach could feel Simon’s body heat, warming his skin in the cool stone room.

 

“At least he’s calmed down some…” Roach muttered, shifting somewhat, his shoulder pressing into Simon’s. He sensed Ghost’s body stiffen slightly, as if he had forgotten how to breathe or was caught up in his thoughts.  

 

 _Speak of the devil…_ The boot of Captain Price entered the threshold, followed by the boonie hat sporting, grim-faced man.  He averted his gaze from the two soldiers, instead targeting a weapons cache.

 

“Going to set up Nikolai with a thermal scope. It’s getting dark – “From Russia with Love” ought to arrive any moment,” he explained. Price rifled through a carton and procured the scope.

 

Before passing through the doorway, Price hesitated and abruptly turned on his heel, looking his men in the eyes. “Riley, Sanderson. I’ve thought things over. While I don’t much understand your sudden inclinations… as long as you two don’t make any bloody _scenes_ , I won’t interfere any longer.”

 

He forced a quick smile – if a twitch of his thin lips could be considered as such – nodded, and departed. Gary could have laughed if he had not been so anxious over Isayev’s visit. He turned to Simon, who was running a hand through his short reddish-blonde hair, his mouth slightly agape with a strange mix of embarrassment and amusement.

 

Ghost shrugged and craned his head back to Roach, “I’m the one who causes the damn scenes; you’ve nothin’ to worry about.”

 

Gary rolled his eyes slightly and laughed, “I’m fairly confident I can manage something that would qualify.” He was certain the captain would consider so much as _a suggestive look_ a “bloody scene.”

 

Simon gave Gary a playful nudge, causing their shoulders to bump together, “Try to restrain yourself, eh?” he expressed dryly. “You need help kitting up?”

 

“I’d love to ready an ACR,” Roach sighed. “But I don’t think I’m in proper condition to carry it.”

 

“I’m gonna carry the Barrett .50cal, should we need to retreat and snipe as MacTavish initially planned. Hopin’ it won’t come to that… but I can also pack and carry an ACR, should you need it.”

 

“Thanks,” Gary murmured, letting himself press slightly into Simon’s shoulder. He felt his skin flush under his shirt and was once more grateful he was no longer covered in grime.

 

Ghost fidgeted as his hand reached into his back pocket, their shoulders maintaining contact. He brandished his skull balaclava and stared at his trademark accessory as his fingers traced the outline of the grinning mandible.

 

“I’m still trying to figure out why that’s so important to you,” Gary stated, staring at Simon’s profile.

 

“Been a part o’ me since… Mexico,” Ghost murmured, as his index finger moved from the mandible to skim over the painted teeth. They sat in silence for a few moments – Gary had come to realize that Simon divulged information at his own pace; that quiet reflection served to encourage him more so than words.

 

“Reminds me of all that I’ve lost – and what I’ll continue to lose. That nothing’s guaranteed,” Ghost added, turning his head slowly to Roach.

 

“I’d say right _now_ is pretty damn guaranteed,” Gary replied, his gaze unfaltering. He knew Simon had endured some serious shit, that his past held him back from enjoying his present, but if things were to continue between them, Simon was going to have to work with him. Gary wanted nothing more than to enclose the other man’s hand in his own and to bury Simon’s face into the crook of his own neck, for them to sit there in quiet solitude in a shared embrace, as they contemplated the mission and took solace in one another. But he also recalled Ghost’s scathing comment from the morning on the rooftop: “ _Doesn’t mean I’m a pillow biter_ ,” indicating his discomfort at the idea of submission. Roach forced himself to dispel his thoughts of affection at a time like this. Simon was still wrestling with his feelings.

 

Ghost offered an _mmhmm_ and continued to stare at the skull-painted fabric. It seemed that Ghost thought his barely audible reply sufficient enough; Roach could tell his thoughts were elsewhere, caught in a grim reverie of images that he could not begin to imagine.

 

“You’ve gotta admit…” Ghost stretched the fabric of the neck hole and shoved it over his head, concealing his face. “It has a way of unsettling people.”

 

“Think it works on Isayev?” Roach asked.

 

“Not sure, she’s a tough bird. But that Anatoli bloke doesn’t care for it… c’mon, let’s – ” Ghost paused at the sound of solid boots pounding across the stone floor from the adjacent corridor.

 

MacTavish rushed into the entry way, his skin glistening, “We’ve got contact.”

 

Ghost stood abruptly, offering Roach his hand to help him off the stone outcropping. Roach holstered his pistol and secured the spare clips.

 

“Let’s do this,” Ghost was scrambling for their weapons.

 

Even Roach had to smile weakly hearing his personal mantra. Even though the phrase was now perfunctory, it was very much part of who Ghost was. Some things, like Ghost’s philosophy, never changed. Yet others – such as Simon’s gradual admissions – were moments Gary looked forward to sharing.

 

_As long as we survive this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action inbound… stay tuned! Sorry this was kind of filler, but I wanted to update sooner rather than later.


	6. Reliance: PART I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Isayev arrives on the scene, Task Force 141 springs their strategy into action. But not everything goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been chipping away slowly at this chapter over the past month or so (since my last update). I began writing what I thought would be about 5,000 words but the entire thing grew into an 8,000 word section. Yet I'm still working my way through the ending. As such, I've broken what was initially a single chapter into two ~4,000 word chapters. It's probably more manageable this way for reading, and I get to update sooner as I give myself time to wrap up the ending for Part II. So here is Part I and Part II should be ready within a week or so. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Ghost convened in the dining hall with Roach, MacTavish, Price, and Nikolai. Everyone was kitted up with their weapons, ammunitions, and Kevlar-lined jackets. Roach carried the least amount of equipment; a handgun holstered at his side. Even on the pain medication, the weight of a heavy load might cause too much strain on the gunshot wound. Price had explained that his stitches needed to be fully absorbed before Roach could wield a full loadout. Ghost, as promised, carried the Barrett .50cal sniper rifle slung across his back, a handgun strapped to his thigh, and the ACR held in his hands. He would give Gary the ACR should they flee to the designated sniping position.  

 

Simon rolled the fabric of his balaclava over his jawline and scratched at the facial stubble on his skin, wishing that he had made time earlier to scrub himself with a moist towelette or washcloth, and had given himself a shave. Prickly facial hair always felt a bit strange underneath his balaclava. But he decided to take a nap earlier, trading much-needed rest for hygiene as his fatigue had trumped his desire for cleanliness. Still, he looked forward to cleaning up after tonight, if everything went as planned. He noticed Gary peering at him through his peripheral vision, his incessant scratching catching the other man’s attention, perhaps distracting him from the mission briefing. Ghost permitted himself one last rough rake of fingernails across his skin, shot Roach an apologetic look, and rolled the balaclava’s fabric down his face and neck. Roach returned a subtle smirk before glancing back at MacTavish.

 

According to Nikolai, Isayev and her men landed a heli near the monastery, not far from their original landing zone forty-eight hours prior. It was time to put their plan into action.

 

“We don’t want to overwhelm Isayev,” MacTavish explained. “Riley, you’ve been in Isayev’s presence the longest of us all, I want you by my side on this. We’ll head out to meet her and her men.”

 

Ghost nodded, “Got it, sir. We don’t have much of a rapport but I suppose she respects me some. She did bring us to our rendezvous when I requested it.” He saw Gary’s head snap to his position, shooting him a furtive glance.

 

“It’s not about a rapport, Riley,” MacTavish replied. “I trust you to read into her actions better than the rest of us – you’ve seen how she handles things and directs her men to action in the thick of it. Just stay focused on any physical signs that she might be lyin’ or about to pull a fast one on us.”

 

“Understood,” Ghost nodded.

 

_I suppose MacTavish is on to somethin’… I did anticipate she’d be after the DSM. Low and behold, she got it shortly thereafter…_ Ghost gritted his teeth at the memory of her towering over Gary, pistol brandished at his head.

 

“I’ll have you initiate the conversation,” MacTavish added. “You were there when she killed Shepherd, and let’s face it, you and Sanderson probably wouldn’t here now if not for her intervention. Try to coax her into divulgin’ as much as possible about the assassination.”

 

“Aye,” Ghost confirmed. _Looks like I’ll have to do a bit of groveling, but I can’t overdo it, either..._

Even though Ghost had been the one to suggest the plan, even he knew it was risky. If she suspected anything unusual or forced about the conversation, it could place the entire operation in jeopardy.

 

“Good,” MacTavish continued. “I’ve flares incase anythin’ happens, should we need backup out there it will serve as our signal. We’ll fire it directly into the sky.”

 

“Nikolai will return to the rooftop and stay hidden for surveillance,” Price added. “I’ve given him a radio that he’ll use to communicate any pertinent information to Roach and I as you two chat up Isayev.”

 

“Dah, if I see flare fired – I will call over radio,” Nikolai affirmed.

 

Price brandished his own radio, “I’ll be listening.”

 

“We’ll bring her back here once we’ve discussed procedure with her. There’s no tellin’ what she’ll expect of us,” MacTavish added.

 

“I have tested the hidden recorder,” Nikolai explained. “There’s one planted on Soap that will capture your conversation with Isayev.”

 

MacTavish patted a pocket on his ammo vest.

 

“We’ve got ourselves a solid plan but let’s keep our wits about us… I reckon this won’t go as smooth as we’d hope,” Ghost interjected.

 

“Aye, just keep alert for anythin’ suspicious,” MacTavish nodded. “Sanderson, how does all this sound, you’ve any input?”

 

Ghost saw Roach’s eyes skim across the standing figures. He raised a hand to his chin, looking thoughtful.

 

“We ought to stick to call signs out there, should a skirmish breakout and we need to fall back. I was in a lot of pain, but I believe I heard Lieutenant Riley use surnames when introducing everyone to Isayev, when she… threatened my life for the DSM.”

 

“Good call, Roach. It’ll be difficult for her to anticipate our movements if she’s unable to follow who’s expected to carry out the orders,” MacTavish winked. “Ghost – did you…?”

 

“I introduced myself to her by name – she shouldn’t be aware of my sign. I think you might have said it in her presence, but your voice was quite low.”

 

“One problem – Price, Nikolai – what should we call you?” MacTavish asked.

 

“Just call me… Rio. Wish I could have stayed longer,” Nikolai chuckled.

 

“Sounds good, Price?” MacTavish asked the captain.

 

Price furrowed his brow in concentration for a moment. “How ‘bout ‘Quid?’”

 

MacTavish boomed laughter and Ghost snorted.

 

“Price… you think she won’t make the connection of ‘price’ with one pound sterling?” MacTavish scoffed.

 

“Nikolai, what’s a quid?” Price asked, turning to the Russian.

 

“Quid?” Nikolai repeated. “This word, I do not know it in English…”

 

“See?” Price jabbed a finger at MacTavish. “You damned numpty, she’s Russian – the reference will go right past her.”

 

“Fine,” MacTavish sighed, shook his head. “Quid it is.”

 

“Hell, its strange enough havin’ to call you, Soap. You’ve always been MacTavish to us,” Ghost said, indicating himself and Roach with a hand gesture.

 

“We were actually wondering a few days ago – why Soap?” Roach asked.

 

“And I suppose the likes of ‘Ghost’ and ‘Roach’ are much better? Tell yah what, seein’ as we don’t have the luxury of time on our side, if we make it through this, I’ll tell you the story over a round of Scotch ales – I’m buyin’,” MacTavish beamed. “Ghost, ready to move out?”

 

“Right behind you… Soap,” He replied tentatively. He nodded a good-bye towards Price, Nikolai, and Gary. His eye lingered for a moment on the sergeant, his complexion slightly paler than usual. He looked somewhat apprehensive, as if he was uncertain if he should say something.

 

“Good luck out there,” Gary called.

 

“’Preciated,” Ghost returned softly. He walked a few paces to join MacTavish.

 

“Be back before yah know it,” MacTavish offered, turning towards the doorway. Ghost and MacTavish departed down the hall, leaving the comfort of the room that glowed with soft, yellow lantern light for the darkness of the night.

 

**> >><<< **

 

The landscape was dark, illuminated by the faint silver glow of stars and the moon obscured by thin wisps of translucent cloud cover. On the horizon, Ghost could just discern the outline of a helicopter of Russian design, with several shining flares illuminating the silhouette of the bird as well as that of multiple human figures. The sounds of crickets and crunching damp grass a soundscape of solitude and tranquility that masked the severity of the impending encounter between the task force and the paramilitary group.

 

It was almost surreal. Roughly forty-eight hours ago, Ghost was racked with the heavy prospect of taking out Makarov, of leading his men into a virtual suicide mission. Now, after the losses and damages inflicted on the task force, the threat of Makarov lingered, specter-like, always present but no longer the focal point of their mission. The danger presented by the Russian madman’s schemes was not quite tangible as he and MacTavish approached their new threat – a woman who presented herself as an ally yet would throw them to the dogs at the first opportunity; of that, Ghost was certain. While Makarov was still a danger – not just to the task force but to the entire world – the neutralization of the insane terrorist might be delayed as long as Isayev intervened in the task force’s affairs.

 

“What do you reckon? Two against fifteen? Twenty?” Ghost asked as he stared at the landed helo.

 

“Looks like a Kamov Ka-60. She couldn’t pack more than fifteen on that bird, I believe,” MacTavish said.

 

“Just a few more than last time,” Ghost stated plainly.

 

They walked in silence for several moments, the only sounds from the insects and their boots upon the ground.

 

“It’s a good plan, Riley,” MacTavish maintained his eye contact dead ahead on their objective. “Glad you’ve focused your energies on the mission… I’ll admit, I wasn’t certain you’d turn yourself around so quickly. Thought maybe you’d snapped.”

 

“I’ve snapped before. _Really_ fuckin’ snapped. You’ve read my personnel files, don’t have to tell you about the torture and all. But if I can survive that, I’ll pull through anythin’,” Ghost stated, grim but determined.

 

“That’s why you’re one of the best,” MacTavish nodded. “It’s why I trust you to read into this woman better than anyone – you’ve the experience no one else on the squad does.”

 

Ghost hummed in reply, at a loss for words. While he had hoped his actions would re-inspire his captain’s confidence and trust in him, it certainly was not his only motivation to offer a plan of action for Isayev’s arrival. He genuinely wanted to have the upper hand over the Russian commander.

 

They continued several paces in silence. Conversations like this made Simon somewhat uncomfortable – hell, he knew and admitted as much that he had properly fucked up the other night, had caused a great deal of unnecessary pain for Sanderson and an excessive amount of strain between himself, MacTavish, and Price. But he was ready to move on, felt it pointless to bring it up, and wanted his actions moving forward to absolve his past behavior.

 

He had, he suddenly realized, apologized to Roach but had failed to do the same for his captain – more than that, his friend. Perhaps he felt slightly weak having to offer it, or that doing so felt like dredging up dirty laundry, but seeing as MacTavish had already brought it out to air…

 

“I should apologize, MacTavish. I’ve been out of line,” he remarked, quiet.

 

“Accepted,” MacTavish offered. “We’ll get through this, even if the whole damn world’s against us.”

 

Boots squished over soft dirt and dewy grass. _Let it end there. Don’t bring up Sanderson. I can’t –_

“So you’ve smoothed things over with Sanderson?”

 

_Bloody hell._

“What does this have to do with the mission?” Ghost blurted, slightly agitated, preferring to focus on the looming objective.

 

_Bollocks. Can’t my personal life stay… fuckin’ personal?_

 

“Riley, you’re my men, and I’m expected to lead you through this. After your indecent behavior, I need an update on your rapport with our Sergeant. Look, I don’t need intimate details, just how things… _are_.”

 

Ghost sighed but he understood MacTavish’s logic. At least he was _somewhat_ more comfortable speaking about it with MacTavish than Price. The captain had been relatively supportive and even seemed on track to forgive him.  

 

“We’re alright. Not ‘bout to do anythin’ rash.”

 

It was the simple truth of the matter. Heck, MacTavish had seen them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the makeshift armory. Surely he could have read into their body language, took note that their contact was more than just camaraderie in their intimate proximity to one another. But on second thought, Ghost reckoned the captain had been rightfully more concerned about Isayev’s imminent arrival in that particular moment.

 

Recalling the scene, Ghost briefly reflected on his conversation with Gary. Had he known that moments later he would have been scrambling to action, perhaps he would have been less blunt with the man. After all, he had not properly acknowledged Roach’s comment about the present “being pretty damn guaranteed” and vaguely wondered if he would come to regret his lack of meaningful response.

_… Not as if we had the time to seize the moment, in any case._

 

“Alright, mate. I can sense you’re not keen to open up about it,” MacTavish explained, if somewhat uneasily. “It’s not that I’m about to put you two under surveillance or anythin’, just need to be made aware if… the situation changes.”

 

“Aye, sir,” Ghost confirmed, hoping that was the end of it.

 

“Good, we’re gettin’ close to the rendezvous.”

 

Cricket song, the flap of bat wings, the crunch of crumpling grass filled Ghost’s ears as beaded dew-drops collected on his water resistant boots and the hems of his pants. The two men carried on in silence, weapons trained in front of them, ready for any eminent threats, as they listened for activity that was not from themselves nor the natural soundscape.

 

MacTavish and Ghost simultaneously caught the movement. They paused, aimed down the sights of their rifles at the shadowy figures roughly thirty-five feet in the distance.

 

“You boys are carrying quite an armory there,” Isayev’s voice carried on the wind, strong and commanding. “Put your weapons on the ground. Now.”

 

“Couldn’t risk being unarmed if you were followed,” MacTavish explained.

 

“We were _very_ careful. I assure you – no one’s followed us,” She barked back. “Don’t make me ask again.”

 

MacTavish slowly began to lower his own rifle but did not release it to the ground. Through the dim silver illumination provided by the overcast stars and moon Ghost could discern the paramilitary group’s weapons poised at the ready on himself and MacTavish.

 

“You expect us to comply with your request when you and your men are armed to the teeth?” MacTavish questioned, still inching his rifle to the ground, but not relinquishing his hold around the pistol grip and handguard. Ghost mimicked his movement, slowly, calculated.

 

“Place your rifles on the ground. You have handgun, no? Keep that if you feel unsafe, but leave it holstered.”

 

With roughly twelve figures looming on the horizon, all pointing the business ends of their rifles on the captain and lieutenant, Ghost and MacTavish had little choice in the matter. They relinquished their heavy firearms to the ground as Ghost locked his eyes on the Russian soldiers for signs of sudden movement; his awareness heightening as his fingers slid from the trigger guard. He and MacTavish straightened themselves slowly with arms stretched outward and palms open towards their audience. At least he had the comfort of knowing a pistol was within reach – even if it was currently fastened in the holster with the safety strap.

 

Isayev and her acolytes marched closer to their position. The group paused roughly ten feet from the exposed soldiers. Two of Isayev’s men, weapons trained, rushed to scoop up their rifles and Ghost’s sniper. They returned to Isayev’s side with the weapons.

 

“I appreciate your cooperation,” she said, a slight smugness to her tone that Ghost found insufferable. While Ghost could not read her expression in the darkness he detected a smirk from her confident attitude – a smirk he would very much like to wipe from her face courtesy his fist.

 

“You may lower your arms… Captain MacTavish and Lieutenant Riley, is it?” She asked. Ghost could not recall whether he had actually offered his rank to the Russian but figured it had been broadcast on the frequencies belonging to the groups currently hunting down the surviving members of Task Force 141.

 

“Aye,” MacTavish confirmed. “Captain Price and Sergeant Sanderson – our wounded one – are back in the monastery. Care to extinguish your flares and talk things over inside?”

 

“Your invitation seems like a good course… but I will have my men search your hideout for an ambush before we settle in, if you do not mind,” She replied, using her chin to point to her soldiers.

 

Ghost swore he detected another bloody smirk.

 

“Of course,” MacTavish replied. “No harm in that, seein’ as we’d be damn foolish to attempt such a thing.”

 

“Can’t be too careful,” she explained. Ghost finally saw his chance.

 

“Seein’ as we’ve recently learned the hard way ‘bout trust, I don’t much blame you,” Ghost grunted briskly, projecting cool disinterest at the same time he offered his agreement with her strategy.

 

Isayev cocked her head towards Riley almost as if she had forgotten his presence; her full attention was suddenly on him. She offered the same hard stare Ghost recalled from their first encounter; almost as if she thought that if she stared enough she might be able to see past his mask.

 

“Trust depends on many things. Actions, circumstance – for instance – but in my mind, never simply status. I do not earn nor give trust because of fancy rank and uniform.”

 

_In other words, she’s proud to fight for the cause she believes in, not because someone in authority tells her to…_

 

“That ought to work for us, seein’ as we’ve currently no rank or status to offer,” Ghost replied. “Any news on how the Americans are handling the loss of their general?”

 

“Your task force remains accountable in the American reports, if that is what you wonder. Their government speculates that you have gone rogue, having been bought out by the Ultranationalists. But they remain adamant in the media that they have leads to your whereabouts – we believe this a lie.”

 

“Ain’t it nice to hear some good news,” Ghost said, projecting a sarcastic, casual air that he did not feel. “Still, Sanderson and I won’t soon forget your intervention. That was some excellent marksmanship.”

 

Isayev’s shoulders shrugged, almost lazily, but she did not offer further comment.

 

_Fuck, she didn’t take the bait… how much more can I push it?_

“How ‘bout we discuss this with Price and Sanderson? We’re all interested in knowing what was on the DSM,” MacTavish interjected.

 

She lifted a small radio to her lips, “Anatoli, stay with the chopper and snuff the flares. We are going inside the monastery; I will keep you posted. Over.”

 

Isayev lowered the radio and acknowledged MacTavish and Ghost. “I demonstrate trust to you by speaking English. I hope you and your men will return the favor.”

 

“We all want to focus our efforts on the same objective – kill Makarov,” MacTavish reminded.

 

_Only she doesn’t give a flyin’ fuck whether we die in the process; better us than her_ own. Ghost gritted his teeth at the thought.

 

Yet even Ghost was grudgingly impressed with her leadership and how she handled obstacles. Hell, her spiel about trusting actions _might_ have been convincing had she not essentially blackmailed the task force into cooperation. He was already looking forward to having his arsenal returned – the dependability of a gun’s actions was nearly all he ever trusted in his entire life – that, and the one-four-one, of course.  

 

**> >><<<** 

 

“They are moving to the monastery… Soap, Ghost, and it looks like a group of fifteen men,” Roach heard Nikolai’s voice report over the short-wave radio held in Price’s hand.

 

“Affirmative, let us know if you detect anything unusual about their movement,” Price responded. “We’ll meet ‘em at the entry.”

 

The captain returned the radio to a pocket and turned to Roach.

 

“How’re you holding up?”

 

Gary was momentarily stunned by the question. Price had been somewhat abrasive towards him and Simon ever since the veteran soldier had challenged their growing relationship. And while Gary admitted that Simon’s recent actions had certainly warranted Price’s callousness, he also felt awkward in the captain’s presence ever since. At the very least Price seemed to have given up on demanding a “cease and desist.” Yet Gary was not exactly expecting Price to suddenly inquire about his wellbeing, especially given the pressing circumstance. It was actually rather nice, he realized.

 

“I’m alright, thanks… will be better once we’ve dealt with _her,_ ” Roach’s stomach felt cold at the thought of looking Isayev in the eye. The last time he had been that close to her it was at point blank firing range from the barrel of her handgun, forty-eight hours prior. Not to mention the bizarre dream he had after the ordeal.

 

Price nodded and stepped down the hallway towards the front entrance, boots echoing dully across the clammy stone. Roach followed. They waited in silence, for several minutes, near the door leaning up against the adjacent wall, weapons at the ready.

 

Roach barely discerned the march of footsteps through damp grass and soft ground above the din of humming insects; the sound intensified slightly with each passing second.

 

A Scottish brogue pierced the night. “Price, Sanderson – MacTavish here. We’ve met up with Isayev and we’re ready to discuss the next course of action. But she’d like to have a look around first, just to make sure we’ve nothin’ to hide.” 

 

Roach thought about Nikolai positioned on the rooftop. _I hope MacTavish’s voice will carry up there, that he can find a place in the shadows to hide._

“Price here,” The captain boomed. “Tell us how to proceed so we don’t set off any alarms.”

 

“Come out, slowly,” Isayev’s voice was muffled, but no less icy, through the monastery walls. “Place your weapons on the ground – anything larger than a pistol. You can keep your handguns holstered. I have fourteen men with me, and MacTavish and Riley have already handed over their rifles. I would not try anything hasty if I were in your position.”

 

“It’s alright, Price – Riley and I, we’re fine,” MacTavish’s voice explained.

 

Roach saw Price grit his teeth as he turned to face him. “We better do as the bitch says,” he said quietly.

 

Price slung the rifle off his back, checked to confirm the safety was in position. He unlocked the heavy wooden door and slowly pushed it open.

 

Roach discerned about twelve rifles positioned in their direction. In the center, flanked by the wall of soldiers, stood Isayev, confidence and determination visible in her tall silhouette. MacTavish and Ghost knelt in front of her, facing the monastery, as if being held hostage.

 

“Weapons,” Isayev reminded as Price and Roach took several slow paces forward.

 

Gary moved onward, almost trance-like, his eyes skirting the crouched figures of his captain and lieutenant. He scanned their faces for visible signs of distress or physical harm. MacTavish had an air of irritated compliance on his face as he locked eyes with Price, but otherwise, appeared unharmed. Ghost was physically still, his eyes looking beyond Roach and Price, almost as if they were transparent.

 

“This display necessary?” Price barked, indicating Ghost and MacTavish with his chin. He lowered his rifle towards the ground but did not release it from his grip.

 

“Lower your weapon and sit beside your comrades,” Isayev ordered. “We will check for ambush, then we may proceed without such… formalities.”

 

Roach’s mouth was dry as he stepped forward, his knees felt weak at the sight of the barrels training on him and Price. Isayev had her own handgun at the ready as she hovered above MacTavish and Ghost. A nauseous sensation tickled at his throat as he placed one boot in front of the other, focusing on his movements rather than the objective of sitting in front of a firing squad.

 

Roach heard rather than saw Price relinquish his rifle to the ground, vaguely perceived the shadowed figure that retrieved his weapon. Price continued to march forward, standing tall despite the submission that was being asked of him and his men.

 

Roach made another effort to step ahead –

 

_BAAAAAANG!_

Gary clashed face-first into the damp grass and soil. He rolled over, panting heavily, his wounded abdomen on fire from the contact.

 

Blue eyes scrutinized him on a hard-lined face and a white moustache framed a grimace as a gleaming silver magnum slowly raised at his chest. It was impossible for Gary to react in time –

 

_BAAANG! BAAANG! BAAANG!_

 

Gary blinked. The staccato of gunfire was not from a magnum. He looked up, vaguely wondered where General Shepherd was, until he remembered that the bastard was dead.

 

“Sanderson!”

 

A firm grip pulled at his shoulders, hoisted him upward. Gary swayed in place and blinked as his vision took in the bearded visage of Price. The captain maintained his hold on Roach with one arm around his back to steady the sergeant. Gary focused his attention to his body and only detected the throbbing pain from the healing wound. He had not been shot, but the sound of gunfire persisted. As Isayev’s men jumbled to action, directing their attention to the noise, he realized they were being fired upon by unknown assailants.

 

“Can you walk?” Price asked, frantic.

 

Roach nodded as he took an uneasy step.

 

“Everybody move!” He heard MacTavish boom as he saw the Scotsman scramble to his feet. “Into the monastery, now!”

 

“Look like you’re gunna ‘ave to trust us a lot sooner than you realized,” Ghost yelled at Isayev as he followed.

 

“Just get us inside,” Iseyev hissed above the fray.

 

Gary forced the violent memory of General Shepherd from his mind. He was vaguely aware that the spontaneous gunfire had triggered a flashback to the event of the betrayal – and the vision shook him to his core. It felt as if he _relived_ the entire experience, right down to the moment when the magnum round made contact with his body. If a skirmish could send him back to such a traumatic moment without notice, he momentarily feared what his response could mean for the future of his involvement in the task force.

 

“Let’s go, Sanderson!” Price urged, grabbing Roach by the wrist to force him forward, towards the safety of the monastery’s walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, what I thought was only going to be a story of about 6 or 7 chapters has now surpassed that. Oh dear...


	7. Reliance: PART II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Task Force 141 and the Anti-Inner Circle movement are attacked at the monastery hideout and take up defensive positions to execute a retreat. As they combat the assailants the ragtag group of soldiers face some difficult decisions about their next course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been updated sooner, but I was travelling recently without easy access to reliable internet. Good news is that I’m currently working on Chapter 8 and have put in about 2,300 words. Bad news is that final papers and exams are coming up, so it may be a few weeks for me to finish it. That said, I’m genuinely shocked this story is about to hit 40,000 words… this is truly the first time I’ve written anything of this magnitude. I thank you immensely for reading and taking this journey with me!

“I thought you said you _weren’t_ followed?” MacTavish spat. He advanced on Isayev, whose downcast face was unreadable as she hunched forward and rested her arms on her bent knees, taking a moment to catch her breath in the monastery’s dining hall. Roach observed four less members in Isayev’s group as they huddled in the small room.

 

As MacTavish loomed over her, she moved mechanically to straighten her posture and steadied her ragged breath.  

 

“We took all necessary measures, I assure you,” She sneered. “But somethings are unavoidable.”

 

“Necessary measures? Such as forgoin’ stealth in order to humiliate us?” MacTavish barked.

 

“I have lost four of my men – do not insult me by suggesting I would intentionally bring attention to ourselves and place the lives of my comrades at unnecessary risk,” Isayev stepped forward, within a foot from the captain, glaring hard at MacTavish.

 

“Not sayin’ it was intentional – just that I wouldn’t leave out the possibility of sloppy tactics,” MacTavish grimaced, standing his ground.

 

“John,” Price called his former subordinate quietly, stepping forth from the wall of soldiers that encircled the two leaders. “I was explaining to you and Sanderson the other day that someone will track us here eventually… given the proper _persuasion tactics,_ my bought out contacts in the Armenian government would disclose the true intent of my little establishment here. Who knows how long our new friends might’ve been lying in wait for their opportunity.”

 

Roach nodded slowly to himself. While none of them had anticipated the ambush Price’s insight was hardly unreasonable. And as much as he was uncertain about trusting the Russian commander – heck, even as much as he genuinely disliked her – he acknowledged that it seemed unlikely that she would be careless about detection. If he grudgingly admired anything about the woman, it was her dedication to her cause.  

 

The group of soldiers sat in silence for several seconds. MavTavish and Isayev took several steps from one another; neither of their features had softened in the slightest. The staccato of gunfire had ceased since their retreat into the monastery. Gary figured that they all knew the unknowns were advancing on their current position; it was the logical course of action and it was only a matter of time before the hideout was attacked directly. He peered at Simon who stood across the room, pondering what was running through the other man’s mind.

 

_Wonder if he got Isayev’s word about killing Shepherd on the recorder…_

 

He heard Ghost clear his throat, “I think we all know who’s behind the attack – Shadow Company.”

 

“Aye… you’re both right,” MacTavish nodded to acknowledge Price and Ghost as he stepped further away from Isayev. “We need to act fast. They had the element of surprise and we can’t out rule the possibility of bein’ surrounded.” He glanced at the Russian commander, forced a neutral expression, “Isayev – are you able to contact your pilot?”

 

“Yes. But first – Orlov, Sharapov,” Isayev regarded two of her soldiers. “Return their weapons.”

 

Ghost, MacTavish, and Price received their heavy armaments and slung them across their backs.

 

“Price,” Nikolai’s voice cracked over the captain’s radio. “The hostiles are advancing on your position. I have not yet fired, awaiting on your signal. They have not detected me on the rooftop. Over.”

 

“Who the _hell_ is that?” Isayev’s eyes narrowed. Roach noticed that her hand hover over her holstered sidearm. Several of her men mimicked her gesture and looked at her as if anticipating orders. He placed his fingers over the safety strap of his own pistol, should he need to release it from the holster.

 

“Wouldn’t you know, we’ve got ourselves our own Russian pilot,” MacTavish replied as he examined his own rifle. “Sorry – must’ve slipped our minds.”

 

“Can’t be too careful,” Ghost shrugged, casually glancing at MacTavish. His nonchalant tone was curious to Roach, he rather felt as if he was missing out on an inside joke.  

 

“Contact your pilot – check in and see if he can navigate to our position,” Price suggested to Isayev. “If we can use his bird to escape the vicinity, our Nikolai has his own pave low not too far from here. Between the two helis it’s enough to ensure we all make it out of here alive.”

 

Isayev’s jaw looked painfully clenched as she nodded curtly. Yet Isayev seemed more compliant towards the older captain, Roach observed, since Price had reasoned with MacTavish when the Scotsman had been quick to blame the Russian for the invasion.

 

“I will speak in Russian if they are already listening in on our frequency,” Isayev replied, directing her words at Price.  

 

“Good,” MacTavish agreed. He walked over to Price and held out a hand for the personal radio. Price placed it in his palm. “But first, introduce yourself to Nikolai. Tell him the plan in Russian.”

 

Isayev snatched the radio briskly, eyes narrowed into slits, but she addressed Nikolai in her native tongue. Russian voices crackled over the radio as the two parties communicated the plan.

 

“Sanderson,” Ghost’s concerned voice suddenly filled Roach’s ear as the lieutenant appeared in his peripheral vision. “Saw you hit the ground out there, you alright?”

 

“Yeah…” Gary muttered, feeling embarrassed about his recent vision of Shepherd. He glanced into the skeleton mask that bordered the small visible portion of Simon’s face, the lieutenant’s eyebrows forming heavy lines above his weary blue eyes. Gary knew he was a piss poor liar, especially when it came to his emotions. He also wanted to confide the truth to Simon, who appeared genuinely concerned about the incident.

 

“Actually, fuck no… When the gunfire started out there, I saw Shepherd attack me. And I know it’s ridiculous. I know he’s dead.”

 

“That’s your brain still processin’ what happened. I’ve experienced it myself… after my lovely holiday in Mexico,” Ghost replied quietly.

 

Gary expected that Simon might offer something further but Price interrupted.

 

“Nikolai,” he barked into the radio. “What’d she tell you?”

 

Everyone listened as Nikolai confirmed the discussed plan in English. He used previously discussed code words for identifiers like ‘helicopter’ and ‘monastery.’ Isayev had not twisted the proposal. They were all on the same page.

 

“Right then,” MacTavish spoke. “Let’s see if we can take out a few of these bastards along the way, eh? Price, Sanderson – keep this area secure and wait for Nikolai’s signal once we’ve got our exfil inbound. Isayev, gather your men – we’re goin’ to the rooftop.”

 

>>><<< 

 

In the cover of darkness, the ragtag squadron of Russian and British soldiers ascended the monastery rooftop where they found Nikolai keeping watch on the advancing Shadow Company. Despite the unanticipated ambush, Ghost rather thought it was a miracle that Isayev’s pilot and helicopter had not been detected. This was the second time that the presence of the Russian paramilitary group was vital to the protection of the task force.

 

“Everyone keep low, use the pillars inside the central turret for cover. Chances are they’ll ‘ave thermal detection and once the heli flies over, it’ll give away our exact positions… let’s try’n delay exposure as long as possible,” MacTavish suggested.

 

Ghost braced himself behind a stone pillar for cover to aid Nikolai with the watch. MacTavish took up the opposite side with Isayev and her men filled in the gaps.

 

“Detected two groups, one from the east, one from west,” Nikolai explained. “About fifteen men in each.”

 

Ghost scanned the horizon and confirmed the movement of white-hot figures through his thermal scope. The hostiles were still a way’s off yet advancing quickly. He momentarily lowered the scope to view the collection of soldiers on the rooftop who bunkered down for cover. MacTavish was roughly fifteen feet away, bracing himself behind a pillar on the inside of the gazebo-like structure. He thought about Roach, who was downstairs, and his earlier reaction to the previous firefight.

 

_Bloody hell, this outta be the last thing Sanderson needs right now. He’s still tryin’ to recover from Shepherd._

Ghost worried whether Roach could handle another firefight in his psychologically fragile state. Yet the man demonstrated no sign of apprehension at the impending arrival of their new friends. He had to hand it to Gary, the sergeant was likely more stable now than Simon had been after encountering the betrayal of Sparks and Washington. Then again, the two American soldiers _had_ murdered his entire family at Christmastime. Even now, he gritted his teeth at the thought of Sparks’ façade and the welcoming way he had tried to manipulate Simon into admitting some kind of longing and desire for Roba’s brainwashing tactics. His pulse intensified as images washed over his vision – his mother’s death-blank stare, a pronounced bullet hole on his brother’s forehead, the little blood-soaked socks of his nephew’s corpse beneath the Christmas tree. He fingered the sniper rifle’s trigger, thought about unloading an entire magazine into the approaching enemies as if the action would provide the long sought after catharsis he needed…

 

Ghost forced his breathing to slow, knew the risk was not worth his personal bloodlust. He focused on the lives he needed to protect _now._

 

“Anatoli will fly low and release a ladder for our escape,” Isayev whispered to the group.

 

“Once they ready their aim, let’s take ‘em by surprise,” MacTavish ordered. “Target with your snipers.”

 

The men sat in silence for several minutes in wait until the white-hot figures were close.

 

“They’ve paused,” Ghost shared, peering through his scope. “Looks like they’re scoutin’ for our positions.”

 

“Fire when ready,” MacTavish urged.

 

Ghost lined up a white silhouette with the crosshair in the rifle’s scope. His finger applied pressure to the trigger, the gunshot crackling over the grassy plain as the shell hit the stone floor with a _clink_. The white figure slumped to the ground as the dozen surrounding bodies scrambled to lay prone or run. He heard gunshots from Nikolai and Isayev’s men reverberate within the small stone structure.

 

Shards of stone and dirt debris shattered across Ghost’s scope as he attempted to take aim at another figure. The assailants were firing back.

 

A Russian not five feet from Ghost screamed out in his native tongue, Isayev called out his name in shock.

 

“We need to get him downstairs – now!” She yelled.

 

“Hold on, it’ll slow us down to bring him back up here once we’ve our extraction. Just bring him over to the center for cover. Keep him low,” MacTavish reasoned.

 

“Anatoli – how much longer?” Ghost heard Isayev ask her radio desperately.

 

“Three minutes to your position, commander,” The Russian pilot replied.

 

“We’ll keep ‘em at a distance,” Ghost kept his tone confident to maintain morale. He edged his rifle over the opposite side of the crumbling pillar, took aim at the white silhouettes. In this past, the cynical side of him rather considered how modern technology like a thermal scope completely dehumanized warfare; made killing less personal and more virtual. Yet it was situations like this that made it easy to disavow the ethics of modern combat. It was his life or theirs.

 

He squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle’s kickback into his shoulder, heard the clang of a metal shell upon damp stone, and another tango laid still.

 

Ghost heard another yell, thick and bubbling. Isayev swore loudly in Russian; while the words were unknown to Ghost the logical conclusion following the previous guttural scream meant one thing – man down. His intuition had been correct: Isayev offered the deal to Task Force 141 because her men _were_ novice soldiers. It seemed, to him, that her group had been lucky with Shepherd as the general had never foreseen the ambush.

 

The barrage of enemy gunfire drowned Ghost’s audio senses until he heard the distinct crunch of bone snapping as a body slumped down a nearby pillar onto the floor, the eyes of the recently living soldier glazed, the face frozen in slack-jawed surprise.

 

“You need to fire and take cover for a moment before you attempt another shot! Each time you shoot, you give away your exact position!” Ghost yelled above the firefight, his growing voice hoarse, as he crouched below the stone pillar for protection.

 

_It’s futile, they ain’t gonna listen. They’re startin’ to panick. They weren’t expectin’ this..._

Ghost inched the business end of the sniper rifle over the side of an adjacent pillar, remaining crouched, and edged the scope until he perceived the white figures that scrambled across his line of sight, noticed one that paused in position to reload. He lined the crosshair over the body, held his breath to steady his shot, and eased his finger on the trigger. Another tango down, the satisfaction fleeting.

 

_But it ain’t enough, the Russians are droppin’ like bloody flies._

 

A quiet whirring suddenly called his attention above the gunshots, the staccato of metal shells raining upon the damp stone, the _click_ as new magazines were loaded, and the mayhem of frantic voices and groans of agony.

 

_Thuwmpthuwmpthwumpthwumpthuwmpthuwmpthwumpthwump –_ a slow, gradual crescendo, the most pleasant sound Ghost had heard in days.

“The heli!” MacTavish yelled. Ghost could barely discern the Scotsman across the circular stone dwelling’s expanse – a mere fifteen feet – through the thickening smoky discharge and the swirling chalk-white dust accumulating from the bullet-ridden stone.  

 

They needed to keep fighting. Ghost aimed his sniper across the dark horizon but failed to detect any white-hot moving bodies. The hostiles had advanced significantly since his last visualization if the soldiers had navigated out of his line of sight.

 

_Bollocks!_

 

“Price here,” Nikolai’s radio crackled. “We’ve got contact. They’re attempting to breach the front door. Reckon they’re planting a charge now.”

 

Ghost hefted his sniper rifle and crouched over to MacTavish; the captain and Isayev fired at hostiles still approaching from the opposite direction.

 

“Sir, Price and Sanderson ought to have support down there,” Ghost suggested.

 

“Aye, we’ve got the place covered! Bring ‘em up here, evac’s inbound.”

 

Ghost charged towards the stairway, all the while listening for the sound of an explosion, anticipating the breach. Sweat collecting under his balaclava dripped over his eyes, blurring his vision as his heavy boots slipped down several stairs in his haste, the loose gravel catching him off guard. He nearly tripped over a cot when he rushed into the makeshift dormitory, his heartbeat erratic from the run and the adrenaline coursing through his system.

 

Price and Roach snapped their heads at his sudden arrival, the two men huddled by the doorframe adjacent to the corridor.

 

“Heli’s nearly here,” Ghost panted.

_BOOOOOOM!!!!!_

A flash of light illuminated the doorway behind Price and Roach, who brandished their weapons.

 

Ghost made to charge forward but Price lifted a fist, signaling him to stop. The field captain turned to look at him, pointed out into the hall, and mouthed “flash bang.”

 

Tentative footsteps echoed in the hallway along with ragged breathing. He heard hushed voices providing orders, the soft _click_ as magazines entered gunmetal chambers, as the yellow beam of a torch highlighted a strip on the floor of the dark stone hallway.

 

Price nodded at Roach and the two soldiers chucked their flashbangs down the corridor towards the breached door, taking aim such that the explosives would land at the feet of the new arrivals. The flash bangs detonated into blinding white light. The three men covered their ears in anticipation of the concussive waves; even with the preventative action, Ghost still experienced the uncomfortable shock to his body, cringing slightly from the sensation.  
  
“No time for pot shots, let’s get the hell out of here,” Price grunted.

 

They sprinted back towards the stairs that Ghost had descended moments prior. He paused, stood momentarily aside to allow Price and Roach to take up the front, all the while he listened for activity to their rear. Frantic, confused voices and disjointed pelts of erratic gunfire – but nothing that was discernable within an uncomfortably close distance.

 

“It came from the room to the left!” an American voice echoed as Ghost followed the lead of Price and Roach up the stairs.

 

“Go, go, go!” Another voice coughed.

 

Ghost was about to turn the corner of the staircase when he heard movement. Gunfire erupted in his eardrums, which rang painfully as the sound reverberated in the contained space of the stairway.

 

He ducked as he turned the corner, nearly falling to his face with the quick, sudden evasion. He collected himself on his palms, which scrapped uncomfortably hard across the raw stone, even with gloves protecting his skin. He was scrambling to upright himself when he noticed a pair of camo-clad legs towering above him. Ghost peered upward as he righted himself; even with his injuries Roach managed the proper stance for holding his handgun, the sergeant positioning himself at the ready for any hostiles that might flank their location.

 

Sanderson held his aim at the corner until Ghost stood fully from the ground. He moved behind the safety of Roach’s aim.

 

Ghost, impressed with his sergeant’s quick response, nodded in acknowledgement. Sanderson returned the nod, maintaining his aim as both men listened for movement below their position. Ghost raised his rifle to provide support.

 

The scrape of a boot across rock announced the assailant before the Shadow Company solider stepped into view, face hidden behind a half-mask and helmet. Sanderson fired his handgun twice, hitting the soldier in the chest, the body crumpling down the stairs.

 

As the corpse fell, Roach’s arm shook erratically, the handgun slowly lowering to his side.

 

“Fuck,” Roach breathed. His tremor continued, moving gradually from his arm to his entire body.

 

“Let’s go!” Price’s voice called from somewhere above. “Heli’s here!”

 

Ghost paused for a moment, weapon trained on the stairway, but no other movement or sound occurred. He locked eyes with Roach, knowing it was insufficient for offering his support, but it was the best he could manage given the circumstances. The trauma was affecting Roach in ways physically and psychologically beyond his control; Ghost knew all too well what it was like to experience the effects of post-traumatic stress. The man would likely require therapy and being on the frontline was not the place for him, not at a time like this.

 

Roach’s eyes met Ghost as sweat beaded at his brow. The man’s shaking gradually subsided.

 

“I’ve got the rear, go on,” Ghost urged.

 

They scampered to the rooftop without further incident. Anxious relief and exhilaration washed over Ghost in a hot wave of sweat that broke out across his flesh as he spotted the helicopter hovering above the monastery. The last of Isayev’s men were ascending a rope-ladder dangling below as Ghost counted four corpses resulting from the skirmish.

 

Price and MacTavish greeted them below the copter.

 

“Let’s have Sanderson first,” MacTavish ordered. Roach hesitated a fraction of a second.

 

“No time to argue,” Ghost shoved Sanderson towards the ladder. “Hostiles inbound,” he informed the captains as Roach grabbed hold and climbed.

 

“You and Price next,” MacTavish yelled.

 

“When hell freezes over, Soap,” Price grinned. “You see, I’ve one last flash grenade to dispose of while you climb that ladder,” he said, running for the stairway threshold with the explosive in hand.

 

“That man…” MacTavish groaned at his mentor’s disobedience. “C’mon Riley, we’re outta here,” he shouted above the swirling helicopter blades. Ghost began to climb, several feet behind his sergeant.

 

Price was already latched onto the bottom rung of the rope ladder as the helicopter began to ascend upwards into the atmosphere. Ghost looked down at the monastery, the ancient building resembling a miniature model with each passing second, complete with a squadron of animated toy soldiers that poured onto the roof and fired tiny model guns. As the cool rush of wind swept past, he felt his pulse gradually resume to its normal rate.

 

Ghost clambered up the swaying ladder and hauled his weight into the open side door of the helicopter. A pair of gloved hands gripped at the straps of his ammo vest to assist him into the cabin.

 

“Thanks, mate,” Ghost replied, keeping things professional in proximity of the Russians, taking a step away from the sergeant as he straightened himself inside the helicopter.

 

Yet as Ghost surveyed the helicopter bay, he realized there was little need for his restraint. Isayev was beside an injured soldier, applying a dressing to an arm grazed by a bullet. Her men nursed their wounds and their wounded, eyes downcast or fixated on the status of a nearby comrade.

 

_This ought to be a rather humblin’ experience for her… at least eight of her men dead…_

 

Nikolai was crouched behind the pilot, likely relaying the coordinates of his own nearby pave low, Ghost figured. MacTavish hefted himself inside followed by Price, both men panting heavily as they approached Roach and Ghost.

 

“You old prick,” MacTavish landed a playful punch on Price’s shoulder after a moment of rest. “Just ‘cause you were my captain in the S.A.S., you think you get to do whatever the hell you want, eh?”  

 

“Don’t need to _think_ it, Soap – I _do_ what I damn well please,” Price crossed his arms, winded. “Still looking out for you, even after all these years. Only problem is I’ve got these muppets to worry about, too.”

 

MacTavish pursed his lips thoughtfully but the frown fractured into a small smile at Price’s words. Ghost glanced at Roach, who aside from looking exhausted, seemed pleasantly surprised by the captain’s affectionate statement, if the small grin playing on his lips was any indication. Even Ghost had to appreciate the gesture, and for a brief moment, their easy disposition made it feel just like old times – before the betrayal and disavowal. Perhaps the others had momentarily thought the same; everyone was quiet as the copter flew higher and further from the ground.

 

“What now?” Ghost asked, surveying the task force. They had to face the inevitable – Shadow Company forced their retreat from the security of their hideout and they were once more at the whims of the Anti-Inner Circle movement. 

 

“We split up,” Isayev said. She abruptly stood up and made eye contact. Ghost bristled as she walked over to stand amongst the circle formed by the men; he had not been addressing her when he posed the question.

 

“We have two choppers between us. We confuse the enemy by splintering. We need to regroup _and_ look into the intel on the DSM,” she explained.

 

“We need more time to plan,” Ghost blurted, “splittin’ up at a stage like this could be dangerous – ”

 

“Riley, it’s not entirely out of the question,” MacTavish interrupted. “Speakin’ o’ that, what _was_ on the DSM?” He directed his attention back to Isayev.

 

Isayev continued as if Riley had not voiced his concern, “Correspondence with Makarov’s mass weapons dealers – the big stuff planned for attacks on European cities. The dealers are in the former Eastern Bloc. We need to look into it before Makarov takes action.”

 

“We go after them, we have our closest link to the bastard. But we need to deal with Shadow Company – they ain’t gunna give up on us,” Ghost interjected.

 

“In due time,” MacTavish nodded. “Riley, I need you with me. We’re followin’ that intel with Isayev. We don’t know how long we have before that particular trail goes cold. Price, Sanderson – I want you two to go with Nikolai to the loyalist hideout. Regroup and find out anythin’ you can ‘bout Shadow Company and their new leader.”

 

The men nodded silently in agreement as Isayev glanced at them thoughtfully. Her earlier hostility towards MacTavish was visibly diminished. Perhaps in the aftermath of the fighting and his agreement with her plan, she now had a different perspective towards the captain. Ghost figured he probably was biased against Isayev – but not without good reason – she had on multiple occasions asserted an aggressive dominance that was unpredictable and risky. Yet she had not seemed the slightest bit perturbed by Ghost’s attempt to counter her suggestion of splitting up, suggesting she had confidence in her strategies. Perhaps he had only fought against the suggestion because it _had_ come from her; ultimately, he failed to see a logical alternative to the current course of action and knew it to be pointless to voice further protest.

 

“Price, Isayev - let’s discuss with our pilots,” MacTavish added, walking towards the front of the helicopter with the others following.

 

Ghost leaned against the wall of the helicopter, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours, the fatigue of his body finally registering now that his senses had a moment to focus beyond mere intuition and survival. His muscles ached, his knee that he used for crouching while aiming smarted, and his ears continued to ring in the aftermath of the gunfire and explosives. He slowly slid his back down the metal wall as his knees buckled beneath him from physical exhaustion, seating himself onto the floor. He peeled his balaclava from his face, allowing his skin to breathe in the cool air.

 

“Looks like we’re heading separate ways,” Roach said quietly as he seated himself next to Ghost.

 

Ghost raised his arm to his face, wiping the sleeve of his jacket across his skin to clean the traces of sweat and grime. Lowering his arm, he stared at his boots. Somehow, he figured that it was going to come down to this.

 

He slowly turned his head to face Roach, the sergeant’s weary expression matching his own. Sanderson had a small scratch across his cheek but otherwise looked physically unharmed.

 

“You do the need time to recuperate,” Ghost acknowledged. “It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, but it’ll take time to heal from the damage. Take it from me, the psychological can be worse than the physical.”

 

Roach sighed in agitation as he leaned back and rested his head against the wall, “I’m angry. I want to be able to do more. To fight back.” His gloved fingers balled into firsts.

 

“Look, you’ve the right to feel angry. Hell, I’ve sought revenge more than once in my lifetime. But the best thing you can do for yourself, for the mission, right now is to heal. You need to give yourself time.”

 

Roach tousled his sweaty, matted hair absent mindedly, looking more than a bit dismayed as he stared at the group of demoralized soldiers seated in the helicopter.

 

_Fuck holdin’ back. It’s done more bloody harm than good up ‘til now._

 

“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but the healin’ process ain’t an overnight thing. But I trust Price to look out for you – and hope you’ll forgive me if it’s selfish – but I’ve nothin’ to worry about knowin’ that.”

 

Roach turned to look at Ghost and smiled, the first genuine smile Ghost had seen since prior to the assault on Makarov’s safe house. Knowing that he meant the words, and that Roach felt better for hearing them, provided a sense of hope despite the encroaching division of the task force. They had a plan of action; against all odds, they had the information they needed to follow up on Makarov.

 

“Same goes for you – I know MacTavish has your back,” Roach replied.

 

Ghost felt the heli plunge downward as their bodies swayed abruptly from the movement. They braced themselves on the wall, gripping onto the metal surface of the helicopter for support. 

 

“Let’s do this quickly – we are only a couple of miles from the hostiles,” Anatoli barked from the pilot’s seat as the bird landed beside Nikolai’s chopper.

 

The task force exited the copter, following Nikolai, who busied himself with preparations for takeoff in the pilot’s seat.

 

“Watch yourselves out there,” Price addressed Ghost and MacTavish.

 

“Aye,” MacTavish nodded. “You and Sanderson take care… and Nikolai? Perhaps tell your group to consider an alliance with Isayev’s cause… I know you’ve differences and all but you’re only givin’ Makarov what he wants by forgoin’ solidarity.”

 

Price peered over his shoulder, as if to confirm the location of the Russians still seated in the other helicopter. “They’re still radicals; different sides of the same bloody coin – them and Makarov’s group – if you ask me,” he grunted.

 

MacTavish locked eyes with Price, “There ought to be ways of findin’ common ground.”

 

Nikolai emerged from the pilot bay, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “We will discuss it, but it will help for Isayev to speak on behalf of their cause.”

 

“As soon as we finish the recon at the weapon’s dealer in the Eastern Bloc, we’ll join up at the hideout. In the meantime, find out everythin’ you can ‘bout Shadow Company,” MacTavish replied.

 

Price stepped forward and gripped his former subordinate around the shoulders. The two men embraced with an arm around the other’s back.

 

“Be careful out there, Soap,” Price said. “Remember what I’ve taught you.”

 

Ghost glanced at Roach, who stood several feet away from the other men, as a corner of the sergeant’s mouth twitched upward slightly at the parting embrace between the two captains. He stepped away from Price and MacTavish to close the distance between himself and Gary.

 

“Rest up, train, and you’ll be good as new once the captain and I finish up our recon,” Ghost said, offering his hand to his sergeant. Roach took hold with surprisingly strong grip, and a fraction of a second later, before Ghost could register what he was doing, the two men were bound in their own embrace, arms latching onto one another’s backs.

 

Ghost tugged at the bulky ammo vest worn by Roach, felt more fabric than the actual body of the man he held in his arms yet the obstructions unsuccessfully deterred his needy grasp. His fingers kneaded the thick material until he felt the firm body beneath as he recalled their earlier conversation in the armory, just before Isayev’s arrival. Ghost had maintained a stoic distance from Roach to maintain order in the squad, to avoid anything that might further complicate _everything_. Yet now they were faced with separation that might persist for weeks –  hell, they were wanted dead by more than one party and, in their line of work, Ghost was hardly about to rule out the possibility of death, for either himself or Roach. They were standing on the edge of endless uncertainties and the only thing Ghost felt _certain_ about was his need to feel the other man closer, more intimately. He failed to consider who might be watching as he pressed his forehead against Sanderson’s and placed his hand at the nape of the other man’s neck. Their faces were so close he felt Gary’s hot breath across his skin as he breathed.

 

“Stay safe, Simon,” Roach murmured as Ghost felt the warmth from the lips that grazed across his own.

 

The sincere and delicate touch sent a slight shiver through Ghost, his body desiring more contact. Fairly certain that Price, MacTavish, and Nikolai were tied up in their own good byes, and that the darkness prevented Isayev and her men from seeing their exchange, Ghost planted his own lips on Gary’s, no longer hesitant or indirect with the touch.

 

Tentatively, Gary’s hand moved behind Simon’s head. He felt the other man’s fingers twist into his short hair, pulling him in closer, the aroma of musky sweat and gunpowder strong but not unpleasant, the familiar scents overwhelming his senses. As he closed his eyes to take in the sensation of their lips pressed together, Simon felt Gary’s warm tongue slide between his dry lips, entering his mouth gently. He felt Gary swirl his tongue around his own, slow at first and then quicker, slightly rough. Simon responded by gripping at Gary’s neck with both hands, pulling their kiss tighter, their teeth gently clashing together as they pressed into one another, their bodies close despite the bulky fabric adorning them. He felt Gary’s tongue slowly retreat, an invitation for him to explore the other man’s mouth, as desire swelled within the pit of his stomach. He slid his tongue across the edge of Gary’s bottom lip, gently bit the soft flesh and pulled at it slightly with his teeth. Filled with wanting, he applied more pressure with his incisors and tugged harder; Gary released a contented sigh of enjoyment in response to the bite. Simon, aroused by their bodily contact and his partner’s response, ploughed his tongue into the other man’s mouth, pressing his entire body into Gary. Yet Simon was momentarily surprised, rather expecting to take charge, when Gary sucked forcibly on his tongue, pulling him in even closer with the suction. As Gary intensified his sucking they twisted their faces to the side to accommodate their deepening kiss, the exchange growing heady as Gary consumed Simon’s tongue, their pelvic regions grinding together. He felt Gary’s teeth nibble as he intensified the momentum of the sucking sensation, an intoxicating mix of gentle pain and pleasure. Their stubble rubbed like sandpaper across flesh, the friction from the contact generating intense heat between them. After several long seconds that transported Simon from all thoughts of reality, Gary relinquished him from the kiss.  
  
“You too, Gary… stay safe,” Simon managed to breath. Slick saliva sealed his words as he planted his lips firmly across the other man’s. Gary responded with a final press of his lips into Simon’s as they slowly released their hands from each other’s bodies. They turned towards their brothers in arms, brought back to the unfortunate situation.

 

Price busied himself with words between MacTavish and Nikolai. The old captain cleared his throat, looked up to acknowledge Ghost and Roach, his face an expression of forced neutrality in a concerted effort to avoid any sign that the two men’s display of affection had made him uncomfortable.

 

Rather, Price approached Ghost and extended his arm. The lieutenant shook Price’s hand firmly before they simultaneously pulled each other into a brief hug, each man clapping at the other’s back.

 

“You keep an eye on Isayev… Soap is sharp, but he lacks your experience. Keep your wits about you,” Price said.

 

“Got it, sir,” Ghost affirmed as they pulled back.

 

Roach, MacTavish, and Nikolai were likewise exchanging parting words as Ghost and Price approached them. MacTavish directed a sly glance at Ghost, who momentarily dreaded that MacTavish would crack an awkward joke about how his lieutenant had received a “helluva nicer partin’ gift” courtesy Sanderson, or a similarly cringe-worthy comment. Yet the captain restrained his cheeky tongue if any such thoughts had occurred to him.  

 

“Captain MacTavish, Lieutenant Riley – we must be going!” Isayev shouted, stepping into the moonlit night.

 

MacTavish confirmed with a noncommittal “Aye” as she jogged over to Price.

 

“Here’s a freq where you can reach us, and the times we will listen in for communications,” She said, handing Price a sheet of paper. He nodded and placed the document into his jacket pocket.

 

“Now if you please – we need to put more distance between the hostiles,” she directed her words at MacTavish and Ghost. He noticed that her eyes lingered on his face for several seconds, a searching look that he did not return.

 

_The hell she starin’ for?_

He pondered her curious glance as she disappeared into the bird and realized that she had seen his physical face for the first time. And for some reason, her fascination made him slightly uncomfortable. For now, he stowed it in memory.   

 

“Sanderson,” Ghost called, holding out the ACR for Gary. “Take it with you, MacTavish and I ought to have plenty of gear with this lot.”

 

“Thanks,” Roach replied as he retrieved the gun from Ghost’s grip. Ghost stared into his brown-green eyes, a slight ache settling into the pit of his stomach. But he did not resist his longing and instead focused on it for motivation, to focus on the task – the recon at Makarov’s weapons dealer. The sooner it was completed, the sooner the task force would be united.

 

“Let’s go, Riley,” he felt MacTavish place a hand on his shoulder.

 

With their parting kiss having already said everything Ghost could imagine expressing in that moment, he nodded a final time towards Roach, followed his captain, and boarded the Russian helicopter for destiny unknown.


End file.
